I love a woman
whose hands are full of stars.
When passion flares,
I am a bowl of stars.
I drink deep from her kiss,
a flute of fire.
After long drink,
I owe no debt of fire.
I seek her all night long
through softest rain.
At dawn, each puddle
is a skull of stars.
The world offers ample occasion
for pain.
I touch, unharmed, her hair,
a net of fire.
Our days’ exacting work
keeps us apart.
In hard daylight,
there is a lull of stars.
I cannot turn my gaze
away from her face.
Her hazel eyes are gems,
deep set, of fire.
Our nights of love
are still but brief heartbeats.
They burn forever bright—
how cruel of stars.
I try to hold love
in a gentle grip.
I learn you cannot make
a pet of fire.
In lonely distance
lies chill perfection.
As you know, Clif,
that is the rule of stars.
Swim, Clif, in the instant’s
dark river of flame.
Not to love is to feel
a regret of fire.