A winged bird carries your desire

 I want danger—

and flame.

Ice added to my morning bath.

Paperbacks well worn, cracked spines & dog eared—

and you. I want you, now. 

And then, and then—

again,

and again. Again I want you.

My dangerous heart, razed

in an instant. My dangerous heart, in your clutch,

dancing there in my T-shirt and nothing else,

beside the sill

with the swaying plant 

born from a seed planted long ago.

That day. The 29th of February,

when we grabbed ‘em and jumped.

And you sing. 

With volume.

Always, you sang.

But my bones, shed of gut, shed of flesh,

they still posture, they still get up for you.

I don’t want danger. No.

I want a chance, 

and maybe a single flame

lighting the way

protecting this moment,

protecting us. 

I want you, naked, holding a book. 

I heard a bird once sing this to me. 

I too sing with volume, only there’s no you,

no us. 

But that bird had such a sweet song.