Something like adrenaline
rushes ‘neath the skin
that is, slow pumps, quiet, from the heart
of the loud living vessel of art
East to west and up then down
one might happen to see a frown
but really it’s nothing:
only body-spirit simply not matching
A wish to be one with the wind, cold,
against another’s to rise and never grow old
A poem whispers in the ear
the lips utter a hymn like myrrh
while the heavy eyes and gentle breathing
seem to hide the fire with-in…
