My Leaning Frame

I have no room on my leaning frame

The seed that’s planted, in the ground

I have no mind for what lays behind

I put no weight on what others find

On the houses filled and so neatly lined

But to reach for the limits

of what I’ve found.

I have no way to explain the times

Or to exchange my lips for your breasts sweet rise

I cannot reason my heart’s own heat

I do not listen to another’s beat

I do not hasten to another’s seat

But kneel to your breath

and my own sweet sighs.

I have no hope to match the range

Of what your unspoken words have told

to repeat the words of the birdsong rhymes

to hang on the mantles or the chimes

to eat the bread and to drink the wines

to rage against the sheet metal crimes

but to hope to have

your heart, to hold.

I cannot seal my tongue of fire

Or the twisted lyrics of greater men

I cannot hope that the cloudless days

Shall come and go

Be fast or slow

Shall fade or glow

But that all the feted lungs so filled

Shall come back to love you again, again.