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Behind the bamboo blinds


I couldn’t love you on the sly,

From behind the bamboo blinds

that smelled of a distant wilderness –

wet, green and laved with gossamer memories.

It broke my breath to smithereens

to merely stand and watch you pass by,

as if you were a nymph in a lucid dream.

The stars are the shards that flew to the sky

to watch over on my ceaseless sighs.

Wary of refusal and infamy

I couldn’t profess it to you

through my heart’s tenuous beat;

If you walked away scattering my virtuous plea,

It would be more sinister than a dystopian night.

How would I survive my love’s apocalypse,

spelled by your disdainful eyes and curled lips?

I couldn’t have stood there all life,

Smelling the bamboo blinds,

turning my angst to prayer

and my amour to poetry.

So I became the cloud, and poured

as if I was singing my last ballad.

As I dripped from your tousled hair

and slithered down your silken skin

inhaling its heavenly, mortal scent,

I heard you say in half-annoyance,

“Oh, this soaking rain!”

Sweet naivety,

who would tell you it was our secret communion

witnessed by a wan twilight, an incensed earth,

and the angels of clandestine love

hiding in the petals of pink spring blossoms?

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…I am the kind of wanderer who stops to smell the wild flowers on the boughs and feel the moss on the bark The kind of wanderer Who dips her feet in the stream And tosses droplets in the air The

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