Love sequence

An accretion of rhythm and spur,

This is what spring days fathom

Themselves to me, dripping of

Colors, scents and prickled joy,

A story I live in, consensually

Making waste of word blossoms

And holding on to dreams I’ve

Got to remember before minding

The sipping of holy wine of your

Devils and deeds, one song away

As I get closer to the frail margins

Of us, inwards, and somberly decouple

From the taste and imagery of you

And give myself again to spring,

To ravish my verses and assort my

Inside with outer gossamer fingers

Before delivering me back to love.