Craftsmanship
My beloved friend,
I so want to sculpt you a poem,
but the clay slips pass my fingers unimpressed,
the chisel ricochets etchless from the marble's cheek.
I know well how to fold a woman's form—
my artist's eye is well informed with her curved lines,
my writer's tongue knows her dunes and ravines.
But you, my friend, leaves me speechless.
Who will teach me this craftsmanship?
How do I scribe the love of male companionship?
My Love,
I caught like a cowboy
with a noose
for you the moon.
Naturally I had to let it go –
threw the trout back
into the deep (and beautiful) darkness,
but not before I
with silver white rocks our letters,
huge like nostalgia,
spelled out –
my graffiti
(like my love)
knows no bounds.
