my desire

My desire to taste your tandoori
unfurls my canvas mainsail
and sends me into the salt waves,

with their limbs spread out to embrace
me, foaming as I press on through
the sea-swell, called upon by Hera

to destroy my own unsure
disgrace with fury, with fire.
Yet that which offends me and depraves

my stanzas about you and me, forming
ephemera on a whim with ease,
with higher magic worlds unknown

to them as ours, yes, as hours spin
by and we form feelings beyond worry,
well within our space and time. Yes,

that which slows my drive and our spring
and your flow and seeds doubt and renders
serpents as toys to inspire

what revenge, that mind will silence 
and pause and give rise to wind-blown
movements onward, forward.

These pomes that appeal to tongues
and teeth and ripe lips hungering
to impress upon the blood within the breast

a fresh, full pulse expanding
skins, tough, speckled and bulging
in places sweet and luscious,

these bulbs of vernal tulips, of cella
sensing, swimming, and soaking
in sweat and without debt,

just even seemingly placid.
These, they uncover the fatal
and cureless error, the rush

of fire rearing its crest
having fallen upon dry
brushwood sparking a furious

and fierce tumult and fuss,
having returned to the same
lesson and same need for healing,

for blessing, the same cycle
that waxed forth a crescent
reminiscent of the last time loss

and the lost crossed paths, the lost past
forgotten only – remember?  It's the same
island, but all turned around

through that blustery, stormy mess,
came we to the same damn island
and once again we raised hell.

Once again propitiation became
necessary tax and filing and welcome
penance to then loosen from the sacred rock

and delight her in the vineyard
and heed her responses and heed
her rhythms and signals and in pouring

it on, all the praises and graces
and abundant fruit falling from the canopy
of a heavenly spring, an unceasing

stream, a season, and my desire
for your tandoori seasonings,
licking the spoon of your magic reasonings.