no latch

he wants to be in your company
in the corner away from the dance floor
because he does not dance,
that's not his scene

it's difficult for him
to bridge, to admit to the
emotions across the abyss
of all those years of programming

he'd rather his hand on your knee, perhaps,
or around your back,
so long as he can feel your pulse
against the heat of his searching

and i've closed the latch
on you, i suppose, if you want
to consider it truthfully and
can face the facts

that his desire is not so far
from my experience, that my
exclusions are as darkening as
his hopeful inclusions are lightening

lately i'm in love with the
idea of him, how his hunger
is your iris-opening, and the
spreading is in full gorgeous view

i'm guilty of so much latch-letting
in my life, of harboring my lovers
in a lightless labor, huddling them
in the shadow of my ego

expecting them to bloom in
the dark with just my spoiled
breath the heat they needed to
find their true flower

but i'm discovering the
folly of this, of seeing
the man in the corner wanting
and seeing that his is a real passion

that he sees in you what i know
in you; that there is no lechery in
a full-fired falling into the arms
of those who would fully fly

with you, and be carried by
you or carry you, so that in
either way you are not left
in a cold dark place by anyone

i am guilty of driving the latch
home after closing the door,
and peering into the narrow slats
upon my proud capture

but i am sure now that love
is best laid open, freed of the
pull of tides and yaw
of billowing conceit

that we love best when
spread to it and receiving
it unbound, believing and
coming back home

no latch