1.

Oh, love-starved little boy
boy...boy...boy
how you beg for those kisses
kisses...kisses...kisses
to enfold your own image
image...image...image
down the well,
well...well...well

well, what have we here
but a love-starved little boy...boy...boy.

2.

There's a spider in the well trying to crawl up
while the rain is falling down. Sometimes
I imagine I'm a hump-backed old woman by the well,
drawing cool, clear water for you,
dear weary wanderer so very far
away from home.

And when you wash your face
from the desert dust of perpetual longing,
your steel-grey eyes,
how they seem to follow me from behind this wall of chiseled stone.

3.

Roses. Roses fall from nowhere. They have no thorns. Their descent
marks the passages of dreamtime floating into awareness like arrows
from arboreal ancestors,
suspended in a karmic wheel,
like moths flying into flame, into this prison
of incarnation.

Time stands still sometimes
in beauty that is unmarred by human brokenness.
Ashes to ashes. Dreams caught on fire.

4.

But then, now, here.... somewhere else,
wild geese carry my name back to our bed where you
wait for my arrival and my always-return.
Neither one of us asks if there is Buddha
nature in dogs. The dog sleeps her own wolf dreams, howling to
an ancient lineage that gives shape and substance to the moon
in all her splendor.

Moonlight opens windows to our eyes. Shadows stream across
wearing chains sometimes, and these we carry across the floor into daybreak. A little lighter,
a little heavier, we can not say for sure.

5.

Do not forsake me, oh morning light. Every day there's less of
me and more of you. In the evening,
like an echo somehow remembered between the distance to and from
the terror of being alone, I disappear again into your inkwell, little boy
of my unwavering heart.

I hear your call. It soothes my savage breast. It adores me just the way
I am. We write of this every way we can.