I want to whisper
in your ear  a maybe
so desperate for hearing
you ache.  I crave
the unwhispered maybes
and you crave the craving
too. This is the music
this is the dance
this is the poetry of quietude
and life upon a turtles back.

To be filthy with sex
and dark earth below our feet
is nothing to brag about —
but we should brag. Desire
and passion, even in the darkness
are holy things to the brazen
profaners, blasphemers &
heretics. So wait, wait there
beneath the eagle’s beating wing

in the face of the western wind,
wait there, and wonder
am I the muse from which all creation comes?