Land Of Lincoln
At the bottom of the river the sun spoke
as you my love whose lanky legs
predict the future
what minutes I steal
to have you all to myself
to kiss your closed eyes
to cling to your bending knees
as you sigh and shift
taut for a few seconds
and then you surrender a blue lint
nest of hair and its rendering.
Transported into your slave,
paper-cut like the land of Lincoln,
you always famish me.