her eyes
as tired as a mother’s
stare straight into mine
be gentle
she says.
your limbs
flex hard against my bed
in your eyes i see
an old man waiting to die.
i am as gentle
with her
as i am with a poem
the way i slowly start,
hinting at first
at that first half-thought
the way i softly stop,
slowing it all with that
last line
nice poetry.
just stop me why don’t you?
in my tracks
rythym and sound
between the first and last of all your lines
seeing things, moving