I will never tell you
playing the imaginary drum
of your skin over skeleton,
the bone flute of spine,
striking an electric string
of desire, and another,
until its dreamy sound faded.
It is springtime in me;
reverberation of flowers,
birds and their migration—
It turns poets into cheap seducers
of flying words.
And you will not know
because
some mystery is of essence,
faint as pollen,
unattainable as a Grail,
to fertilize the thinking grounds
where I like to hunt.
