The Persian nature of your name has lulled my common sense
to rest in luscious aftertastes of dates and saffroned scents.
I’d fingercomb your every curl,
tousled as they might be,
unhurriedly describe their whirl
—and set my hands unfree.
I’d sip your eyelids –blind you mine–
in quest of the serene
blue-gray waters that rest behind
wreaking havoc on me.
Prosaic words (tasteless casualties of vapid talk) rejoice,
brimful of honeyed subtleties, when smothered in your voice.
I’d trace the enticing pathway from
your eyebrows to your nose,
my breath and fingertips agog
over your leaning close.
I’d pour us forth—
I’d breathe you in—
I’d learn –by touch– by heart the unshaven pleasure of your skin—
faltering woulds apart.
Droughts of a man [your dearth] wither by half the word woman.
[for no Eastern zithers play along sere jasmines].