cropped short, ungrowing
but stretched like wax
across the long couch
is to see a candle with no wick
all potential and no power
a cloud that cannot rain.
You move like thunder
with eye flashes to herald noise
but all the time distant.
I pour water, dig deep
but you wait like that holy vine
the mistletoe that grows on air
my platitudes and pleasures do not reach you.
Poured like wax across the silk
you will not melt nor burn
but only bend around me
till I am the thread caught fire
and at last we conflagrate.
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