Excuses

Pardon me if I don’t write:

My hand trembles, pen wavers,

I mistake it for a sin

or a garden snake

and cast it to the ground.

Pardon me if I don’t speak:

My lips part to say “I need…”;

My tongue stalls,

at rest with “… you”

pressed to it in silence.

Pardon me if I don’t make love:

My heart, mind, are spread across the clover,

a winner’s blanket

upon which I lay bare,

open to your touch.

Pardon my excuses: My soul was startled by yours, and flinched.

25-31 May

Camel-colored leather armchair