Fingers of A Loving Hand

In the downpour,
you shamelessly open
Lips to wait
for lips

I come,
with an umbrella, open
No, with a face, close
to your leaves, battered
in the storm.

Stem bent,
face buried in the mud,
lips open
continuously filled with rain
of no concept

Of gentleness,
my lips touch your lips
My pink lady's slipper,
Solitary for no one.

I am yours,
fingers of a loving hand,
hold your with a twig
waiting for no one.


1990, New York