i think i am, perhaps, poison in bloom:
a colorful outpouring of natural attraction, and a heart
dense with toxicity.

i worry that your hands, in grazing over me,
in their beautiful meanderings over my skin,
will wither.

in the early days i could have tried harder,
done better, put myself right again, met the standards
i am supposed to meet.

but i am tired, aching and disconsolate, a gull
keening over the expanse of the lake, waiting for
the wider ocean.

the heart of a bird is flighty, lithe, but pure:
on straight pinions i wheel towards you now,
purged.