In the Wheatfield

Squabble of the heart and mind, a glitch
In love’s grand design.

What freedom that was, saying things we’d left unsaid.

All my body's undulating
In rascal thoughts of secrets,
In bursts of holy wind,
In the mayhem of my passion's roar.
Rambling through the dicey paths,
In the debasement of what once was pure:
Disconcerting yet unending,
Muddle through, yet still whole.

Sustenance in your touch I find, extinguished,
In spite of sapphic whispers.