Listening winds
overhear my privacies
spoken aloud (in your
absence, but for your sake).
When you, mustachioed,
nutmeg-brown lotus,
sit beside the Oberlin shoji.
My thoughts are particular:
of your light lips and hungry
hands writing Tai Chi urgencies
into my body.
I leap, float, run
to spring cool springs into
your embrace.
Then we match grace.
This girl, neither feather nor
fan, drifted and tossed.
Oh, but then I had power.
Power.