What You Have of Me

When I hyphenate
my lines,
I imagine you at the bank,
sipping from the river
its flatness.

And when some words
are born out of the rhyme
that was our time,
I imagine you cradling my poems
in your arms,
kissing them with the understanding
of a muse.

'Because' is irrelevant.
My every pause
is an allowance for you to touch me,
physically-

there, where I hide my mind
is your point.

Arms and legs are just spokes
to a wheel,
that has forgotten to roll.