He’s close enough to sink
into the swirling galaxies
and worlds of her pores, close
enough to struggle
in the whirlpool and torrents of hair
fanned in ceremony
upon the grass.
Flowers of a rose hue
grow quietly out of themselves,
each petal like a written word
spoken confidently aloud
and there can never be silence.
The wind anxiously rattles on
it speaks of scalpels
of drills
and machines of war
words which patter
harmless as hail
against a yawning deafness
born when their finger tips first touched.