shy to touch
hands..
in the presence of
strangers,
and
so eager
to
find space
for expressions
more grand.
spiritual evolution
flicker
to full torch-
an ember to
ash,
ignite passion’s
light show,
with bat of
a lash,
no need for answers,
if onlookers
ask.
cracking and
mending
from
breaking,
not bending
bones grinding then
stiffening,
from
too much damn
flexing.
marathon
runner-
rounding home
stretch,
close to rest but
no, not
yet-
a few strides,
left..
‘fore
he reclines
into sunshine on
back deck.
last kiss unravels-
back to
first sandcastle..
on beach no
longer
within reach
of eyes–
yet wet with
hunger.
shrinking the
past–
down to
size,
reflecting on each
crease it
left,
letting go of
beliefs-
hopeful, yet
bereft.
tore cardboard
casing
us–
climbed right out
of the box,
to feel dust of a
fresh day
tease our
lungs.
pretenders-
bad actors on
a stage,
spectators not
fooled..
waiting patiently
for plot
they can sink their
teeth into.
colors of the
soul-
many brushstrokes
lack control,
wild blending of
bright paint,
won’t render artist
faint,
all colors of the
soul-
applied with loose
restraint.
laying face to
face–
in claims of same
tight space,
were we to watch
each other’s
dreams.
would we blush
or scream?
might we be underwhelmed
by what we
see?
hands in the garden 
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