Love Poem

I do not dream of you;
you do not lend yourself to rhetoric
but move in calligraphic paths
untraceable with words.

I dream of small gray birds
with dark-streaked wings cupped in my hands;
I fling them out to fly,
soft cries and feather-thin,
beating arcs into the air,
leaving barbs and thorns caught in my fingers.
I move between the pain of touch and joy of sight:
the etching of those bodies on the sky.

I do not dream of you
but of the mysteries you hold me in,
in feathers, winds, and wizardry,
yet if I spoke
my voice would gleam in hard, bright fragments
you could not hope to catch or comprehend.