Unfinished
I stand here, quaking, like those aspen you showed me, unfinishing the poem I cannot write. Quaking--to feel warmth in chilling breeze. Empty-handed, looking at Stars, wonder how they still manage to shine in the frigid night. Do You shiver in solitude? Can You get warm? Show me how.... I lie here, stroking my hair, like the wind in those mountains you brought me to, unfinishing the book I cannot read. Stroking--to feel passion in sterile room. Empty-handed, looking at Sunset, wonder how it still manages to paint vibrant on the dusty night. Do You caress the land lovingly? Can You still feel? Show me how.... I turn here, streaming with tears, like that river we passed, unfinishing the song I cannot sing. Streaming--to feel whole in enormous bed. Empty-handed, looking at Waters, wonder how they still manage to surge through the endless night. Do You pour out your sadness? Can You forget? Show me how.... (For JMS, original draft 8/...