Enlighten me.

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.

I dry

[for no Eastern zithers play along sere jasmines].

paulasánchez