Gambol

I haven't got enough of You.
I want every inch, every little muscle from the outside to the inside.
I want Your eyes, the way they flash. Their terrifying constancy.
Give me also the dirt around Your fingernails,
and Your breath, heady and warm. Let me see up close
the caverns of Your ear, their folds, their small hairs somehow
                                                                           
                                                                              always
                                                                                      hearing
                                                                                   me.
You have not grown old. You are newer to me now
than before, when I was <busy>. But one small
day is not enough. I have only begun to map You, and one place,
once noticed, changes in innumerable lights. Yet
You always stay the same. You wheel me giddy into laughter and despair -
will I ever? Can I ever? Know You?

Master. Lover. Leader. What shame is there in our wild dance? This
is (ab)original, as it has always been. Our dance.
Our gambol.

Lord, take me now. Now I'm full of soup, and ready
for something steady and contrite. Concrete.
Keep forming me. Make use of all the rags, wear me
to shreds and then
compost me.
Oh spring! Oh green! Let me keep making life
and more life, always!

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