The wreckage of winter and
my heart coalesce 
with every moment and gesture.

The silence of unfulfilled desire
is a howl of wolves extracted
from the depths of antiquity. 

Slowly I bow to poets who come
before me for they may have said it all.
Perhaps I have to drink from every cup
of wine until I find my own.

Just like I drink your love and borrowed
words until I find my own. 
Perhaps I have already found my own,
and now I wait for you to find. 

Your skin your voice. 

Now I wait for you in the valley of those
who are tired of all the talk and noise.
Tired of an obsequious existence 
devoid of all that is original and meaningful.