If I wrote you a love poem-
would that be too endless?
Would it mean imminent
consciousness if I say too much;
puerile and unthinking?
But that must be the point.
It must be a sample of a small idea—
Even when too much is only a fragment,
when the compactness of you and I
becomes about restriction. When
I immediately become familiar with
every part of you—even in only seeing part.
It is habitual- this censorship. The wanting,
the piquancy, the stopping ourselves for
others. In moments (short ones and
measureless ones) it feels criminal.
Taking part of each other is not stealing.
I would give it, if you asked.