To a Verbose Suitor

You can't abstract me, sir, no;
this leg and this hip make
a perfect - (almost) - right, but then twist
and curve to other shape, un-
traceable and mocking words or any
thing not solid, ground, now.

You can't describe me, sir;
Not to draw me closer with a
less-than-spider web, not to placate
my eyes which might window soul
but are still round, heavy, wet, salt.

I change, I flow, in the time between
your thought
and your word
and in the time
inside that.
The pattern only patterns
from afar
and you want
to step closer....no?

So close the pages of your book
(good only to press a flat flower)
and take that nearer step -
Sink foot into soft earth for print
which will deepen,
rebound,
and in whose
sweet crevices
shoots of green
may grow
and fall.