I could simply shout your name,
stop the playing of this game,
not mince words. They’re all the same . . .
If what I know could make a sound
and slowly, come around around
again again, as if unbound.
If I could sing to you a song
and serenade you all night long
and just say screw it, nothing’s wrong
with living. loving. being, serving.
It is not a sweeping swerving
sense of anything deserving.
It is all about respect.
In the mirror, you reflect,
one small motion: genuflect.
Damn it dear, you caught me cussing!
On the floor I’m tossing, tussing,
turning, yearning, burning, fussing!
All I want is what you know:
one sweet garden that we grow,
here or there, We sow and sow . . .
And this too:
Shabbat Shalom, the first of a kind . . .