Do make … and yeah … it AIN’T the same as make do!

Out of the wild flowers of your heart

when you wanted to love with the abandon of

big city urbanity, flourishing a soft nature

amongst the concrete and

ass, I urged you “Do make!” and insisted it wasn’t

the same as “Make do!” ever was; never quite the same,

anyways, never exactly the same stuff at all.


But what I really want to do, what I really need to say –

now, I mean, after everything that went down –

is over and above the references which remain,

my natural place of residence would

remain in your heart; would remain in your sex

for as long as you would have me; only for as long

as that might be; only for as long

as you would care;

and if the answer was never,

then never it would be.

But like a house on a hill, seen from afar,

a house with bright lights

which illuminate your ver-



and dusk-covered corners and chimneys and

eaves, and flowers barely perceived in the dark

of dew-lit night, as water’s little droplets do

scatter stars across the grass,

I still find myself returning to the love we once were:

I still find myself yearning for the touch of your skin:

I still find myself recalling the sound of your pleasure:

I still find myself [re-


ing}] the permanence I did want to make of life


then and there and inside your body and outside

your face, and the grace of your wit and your

wisdom and your life and your beautiful

sense of doing just the right thing

exactly when the right thing

just needed to be done;

and in your hands it became

wanted to be done;

and everything I did with you I’d never

declaim: “Be undone!”

For your love was a flower which emerged

from your heart amongst the glass and

concrete being my life had constructed

and built and forged and formed and shaped

around the heart which – inside me – still beat-

ed tick tock;

that heart which still beats, even now.


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