For A Woman Who Wanted A Love Poem While Jimi Hendrix Played Across The Street

What a typical twist of irony for you,
O my lovely,
that your very embodied truths
preclude my always adoring you.

Your roots,
twisted and comely
cough as shoots of doubt spring up,
themselves owed their due
by sun and seed and heart;

to grow trunk-thick and warm
and wait the woodsman’s call–

that is the fate that lazily we all attend,
and to speak softly:
I love you
is the same to say
I will leave you

if only to kiss the sky.


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