She’s Into Breathing

She Is Into Breathing

She would have me be
some flower child I think, but
I am not ready, and she smiles.

She is breathing a lot with
an in and out of some esoteric spirit that
enlightens her with a flower of calm, and she is
such a delicate beauty like a lotus of legend dreamy, but she
remembers me when I sing with her in the mist of the do dew

Such a body of her thought I
was going to indulge instantly, but
the body is too beautiful not to stroke with the casual touch
that is the play of the casual observer of the flower who
doesn’t have the sting of the bee or
the need for nectar, but has the’in camera’ meeting
to ask an exception to modesty, the playful
romp of the adult in child’s clothing, the genteel one who
will twist on demand like a dancer of the ecstatic moment
encountering a surprise. I have flax seeds on my decadent
cheeseburger; oh, could you cleanse me with olive oil, and
a salad of conversation: I could pine away my sins if you
would needle my tree as if my sap were fragrant like the trees you worship.

I could branch to your heaven if you will feed my roots
in shallow soil. I am wandering in the topsoil. Help me
go deep. Tell me if I am a weed or a tree, and
if you are the gardener or the farmer. I’d
rather be loved than be harvested.

— Douglas Gilbert