My hands have closed
Around your frame, and you
Have let them own you
For a time.

Parting the curtain of your skin,
Light revealed you to me as a room.

A gentle candle flame burning on your cheeks,
On the sun-red-already and freckled cheeks,

Running water under the canoe looks like glass;
We are the only boat on the creek.

Take your pictures at night, of trees behind light posts,
And bother not with sleep.

Talk and talk and talk and talk and talk
(But take a special care not to speak).

it is perhaps something in
your skin,
(your skin the inside flesh
of almonds) or in the subtle of
your lips which
pull-and-press-and-speak—
no,
whisper—words my inside beating heart
alone can hear
,that make me think of this:
Spring is in you (and too
has found a home in me); yet a thing is
missing—

the urge to kiss was meant for kissing