Submission

They soar,
these questions
that your eyes ask in silence,
before I can grasp
the tail of their quest.

Your utterances
capture the rest of my letters,
from a gaping mouth
and stretch their meaning
to saturate all the ego
that is your mind.

My hands
you hold down
and insist that I express myself.
In my resistance,
you discover my religion…You.

My head, 
you cup,
as you sip my thoughts,
and relish the familiar taste of your skin
in my dreams.

You are everywhere,
in me.
I breathe your name,
savor your presence
as you grace
my eternal orbit of your realm.

Lost are the reasons
that bind me to reason.

You are my all
and all that remains of me

Is yours…

February -My Birth Month

It's like February brought birth from another land...
Not where I was born.
Cold and white and despair-intriguing.
The dogs won't walk.
They snore.
As do the chilled waters
surrounding dying flowers
who have forgotten how to be thirsty.
This February was the sign of my death.
Smiles from older photo-memories of people,
peeped.
They were gone to a land warmer,
where God had more than one sun to give out
And left us,
in the land of Cold February.

Angel Stuff

You were made of angel stuff:
the stuff that is hard to come by
these days...
Your smile would open God's sky
to let through his faith in humankind
But you never saw the sky...

And now you have left this world of skies.
And we lie,
injured spirits underneath,
drenched in self-inflicted miseries of rain
when God had intended your Angel Monsoons
to wash us clean of pain.