If I tried to dream you
out of whole cloth,
what a disservice it would be.
We speak in print,
with proper letters and cadence.
There’s ample time
to consider a question or a statement,
or to bid a gentle goodnight.
I apply and project my idea of you,
as a sculptor might,
from raw clay and memory.
You have never posed, I think,
and you are real and proud.
Noble qualities you exhibit,
and because I am not noble,
I rationalize and dismiss.
And, unworthy, I mash the clay,
and start again.
Aremyfeetofftheground 