A Poem
by Ned



I feel that jangling
the telephone of my life
wringing in my soul.

There are no wrong numbers here.

I answer.

I hear:
movement
your breath
your voice.

I turn to that black sun
hot with promise
at the center of your eyes,
that draws me down
from the man I think I am
with the gravity of my becoming.

I gaze.

I see:
your hands
your breasts
your face.

Innocence holds my cup.
Experience pours with unsteady hands.
Knowledge flows down my arms like water,
dripping on my feet, forgotten.

I drink.

I open to:
your fear
your dream
yourself.