Three poems

[Untitled]

You touch me with politic ardour.
You touch me to fraternize.

I dare not touch you.
Touch tells tales.

[March 2004]
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Morning - IV

I think of you with dry toast and early mornings
that last longer than mornings should.

Longer than dawn, longer than noon and even
through sunsets, it's still morning...

And you are still with me -
swilling my tea,
stirring in sugar,
sipping from my glass.

My eyes open, but I am
glazed, shut up
in a sleep-like box,
where the whiff of dry toast and morning and you
steeps into me.

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White

They say I could be almost white.

Almost white,
if it weren't for my genes.

Cream-white
porcelain-white
sky-white
wall-white
but not white white.

Someone had once called me a white buffalo.
How right he was!

White, but tropical.
White, but still,
a black-hide animal on the inside.

White,
but not quite.

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[From the Oct 16th reading at Anita's]