Shall I see you again, shall we
rip off the bandages and roll in our blood — clenched in the skin-touching,
nerve-burning now, not soon, not later,
It is quiet here — my books, my cat,
my house and flowers. Friends and
comfort and the rush of music and
swirl of dance and the lush luxury
of words. It could be enough.
Yet I have known the danger-thrill,
the touch and taste and thrust of death
of pain of love, and I, I find that I
would race to you, embrace the
burning ice, the freezing fire,
the swift combustion, destruction,
regeneration, if only a moment in your arms.
February 28, 1997