Let Us Become One

I love the fantastic, desperate imagery in this poem.

Little Spud in the Big Apple

To the sweet girl who quietly
maintains the chaos of my soul,
to her candied lips of white chocolate cherry,
the rum filling of her tongue,
to the whipped cream softness of her navel
and the down of her small arms,
to her glittering soul,
ethereal like a kite released to storm:
tossing wildly and red in the rain,

I need you more than you know,
I was a lifeboat set out to sink,
an inkwell barely balanced over carpet,
on a tipping point between creation
and loss of control over each sobbing wave,
near to writhing on the ground with the realization
of what true loneliness is or has the intensity of
when it rips into you like a weed whacker;

With you, I am an open field unburdened
by a lot license, I am free of earthly ownership rights
and we, you and I, are not weeds,

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