We want

We want to arrive somewhere safe,
a place where what and who we need are near.
We want to know we will go on being loved,
that there is music behind our fragile living
to which death is not the only one dancing.
We want to shake the guitar of living into vibrato
to live like a lover with eyes closed into music,
lips parted loose, unselfconsciously sound.
We want to be touched with gentle purpose,
like wind in yellow grasses. Dance, drop seeds.
We must continue dying, drying out to do so,
become green again and again, find love in pollen,
make love yellow legged in sunflowers.
We want not to suffer separation, and
our wanting makes our suffering worse.
So we save seeds and pollen in jars,
sing to them: we want love to be this easy.