Rumi graces candlelit evenings Soft and gentle mystic love Petrarch forms great swaths of words Too soft to give to waiting doves I crack the knitted fabric With crusty crude cold air Animal lust crudest love Tearing fabric laying bare I probably should have held my tongue Let quiet passion's sway Inspire the genteel crowd Toward a hopeful gentle day Instead I shed the mystic garment Laying out my withered soul Upon a coffee table Searching for a larger goal
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2005