Give me your hands,

take me to

a place

beyond the pikes 

and pines. 

Why not dream 

of gold-crested refineries,

bottles of musk and lavender

promised 

with lilacs and magnolias

and the power of mint?

The way some fingers curl

around the throat,

painted on fragile frames 

with oleanders,

are all with

Narcissus' 

alluvial regiments 

comprised with our 

afeared gazes.

We don't have to be their 

beholders

or tenants 

in their blithe gardens 

of dead gardenias 

and wild orchids 

and poach

them

for a view 

of the future. 

I'm asking you 

to believe 

in the carousel 

of our skin.

It has survived 

far worse.

Give me your 

softest,

lightest touch. 

There is a sun

waiting in the drapes 

of our 

whole lives. 

Take me 

to that one warm

horizon 

I can sleep with

and drink

with my eyes.

***