Pome Groan

it's not knowing,

it's constant in its hunger

and ceaseless in its growing

soft unfolding petals kissing

lower, moaning faces howl

like the homeless dogs

lowing late at night

casting sickness in between,

each beating of your heart,

when you're waiting for the flood

or for the halt

---

if your hair were an ever flowing stream

and i a fish living within your strands

would you perceive my briefly breaching gleam

would i have any hope to understand

the luster of your tresses in the sun

and how it feels to bathe ones hands in them

or would i swim in bliss on every run

not knowing the true beauty of my home

and you my scales twinkling in the light

each flashing like a star up in the sky

would you be more impassive than the night

whose firey orbs burn onward on soft sighs

a metaphor can sometimes help one see

that somethings are best said straightforwardly:

you have beautiful hair