There you are making every nerve fire with a cocaine high,
drowning blue and burning black, my blood quickens red hot,
and I drift off to Morpheus’ domain where you are painting
scenes from summers to come, springs long gone, pens coiled
in your Titian red hair. You lead the schoolchildren to seas,
teach kindergartners to summon winds, revel in youth’s bliss
as the six and seven year olds frolic in rolling meadows and
shining sands. We are alone in a coffeeshop with books and
our poet’s eyes, we are talking of our favorite flowers and
you are stroking my hand with your scarred thumb, peace flees
and you are on the battlefield in medieval armor with the
Maltese Cross on your chestplate, flaming sword to impress me.
In summer, you are a teacher, in winter, you are a warrior.
In spring you are a huntsman, in fall you are a musician.
But forever, you are my bliss. My golden, bleeding heart.
I would give the world just to hold you in war and peace.
Mayhem may pass, domesticity may quake, but my adoration
at the roses of your reckoning are of an eternal burning.