I share the Jungles in your mind,
and I pray that I can find,
the easy, timed release
of Sunday morning.
As I go,
upon the slow, slow dying
path to fifty-nine.
As I go,
upon the slow, slow dying
path to what is mine.

I wish...
To touch your smiling moon,
play your monkey’s hide and seek,
wake the undevoured gypsy from her sleep
beyond your lion.

Join your seriousness of craft
and societie’s
half daft,
and deft,
and wildly living naivete’,
all quite Egyptian.

Spend the time amidst creation
in the solid isolation of an art
and avant-garde,
well banked with client.

Oh, your colors carry dreams,
and the eddy’s rushing seems
to haunt my flow,
and glow,
washing as I grow,
dear sweet Henri.

06/01/1997

Posted on 07/11/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers