You ask for the dream
like a child
set on ice-cream
at a Saturday circus
You yearn for
old calendars, broken clocks
and promise to keep
your corner clear of webs
You want to retell
your famous life-story
to poets and editors:
recorders of time
But most of all
you ache inside
for the touch of
someone else
nestled close
beside you
breath warm
along your hair
whispering
dark wishes
in the still nights
of your room