| (for whom I would be more) |
| I, in trying to be beautiful (like this flower opening), would be for you. All this world�s hands pulling is so much more imaginary than your drinking of wine. But the only mimicry in this life is for mimes streetwise performing. So I dream up an imaginary you for my poetry. I plant seeds of words on page upon page and cover them with fingerprints for hoping to grow a you that wanted me. Tell me of things that do not tilt toward the sun in spring � that grow from somewhere deep in the quick. Pushing themselves up. I believe you can because you understand them. |