Coming home
I could become a tree,
some garden growing
season-shaped
and silent:
lust and love and language
growing quiet in the night.
I want to be your lover though
and friend,
a darkness bleeding light
and hope,
a dance of strangers
coming home.
I want to love you,
be your skin
and waking nights,
the quiet places burning,
changing - yes:
I want to be inside your secret, sacred places.