I am not a poet, I am a poem!

Lie with me; Lie to me not!

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen

I fear death. I think I must learn to romanticize death so that I can cope with its brutal irreversible numbness...!