Dear Whitman, I enjoy your writing.

She gazes through brown, no green eyes
I saw Venus in one eye and Neptune in the other eye.
The waves crash in her ears and shells trickle out and glistening viles of sand.
The wheat bends 300 miles away and 4,000 miles away and just up the road.
The ripple from a Michigan stone turns into laying bodies and ripens our fruit.

Balancing a chin on a palm, the fruit swells and the breeze runs by and excites the surface I share.
If the public was private, and the private was private, we would share our privates without gasps.
The primitive woman waited all night to see our dance but there were too many eyes, too many eyes not using their ears, or their tongues.
The man throws a stick to his best friend and waits for a loyal return.
The beautiful, long, silky dog tramples the edges of the legged and the ever-bathing world.
The runner takes strides so long and so lost in his high, he runs by without noticing a dog on the edge of creation.
As one walks, as we all walk, and I wait, as we all wait, for our man to move into the next frame.

I am a woman, and he is a man, and we share a pulling force.
Woman and Man. Is there a difference? Are you the difference?

I am happy, I am not ashamed, I am your body as you are mine, and he is ours, and she is ours.
I am young, and you are young, and each day our bodies decay, and each day every body decays, and each day every body dies, and each day every body lives and breathes.
And I am happy that every part of me lives and breathes.
And because I am of two and you are of two and we are all of two, we all have multiple souls, and our multiple souls nap and sway and rejoice until we all arrive.

And I turn back and look at you, and you look at me, and we entwine.
I see a crescent moon settle on her face and she adds aroma to the wind and laughs.

I twist that way, you are there, you twist this way, I am there, and our skin dances and jumps, and it is good.
You are one beating heart, one of a number not yet imagined. And I am a beating heart, and she and he, and that is good.
You are not a top hat, not yet décor of parental love. You are perfect, formed perfect with all your perfect qualities. And I am perfect, and he is perfect, and she is prefect, and that is good.

Lay and watch the clouds! O the first screen to ask for an audience and we watch.
And I close my eyes and see the world all upturned.
The core scorches our delicate earthly blanket, but leaves no grafts.
The volcanoes and trees erupt towards the sea where we sit by and watch.
The sea expands out of a leaky hole in the center of the universe. The universe I have not yet disturbed. Have you? Will you?
The world is upside down, but we keep a collective beat, and we carry on.

I descend towards my lover’s warmth and she colors me and moves me and moves into me.
I come and I come and I go, with a tight and loving grip on every strand of the world.

I could and would not stop if I wanted, If I should, I would not want even if I should, who would want to stop?
Who would stop the spinning?

We lay over manmade robes and I use my most loving touch, as others use a prod.
I slide into her space and time and she takes me in, takes my neck and takes my waist and hips.
Can I feel more beauty than this? Can I feel my body separate from hers? Can he feel his body separate from his? Can we all detach from a soul we have boarded?

No, I will stay for now, and you stay, and we all will stay together.
And the world will turn, and the hearts will beat, and all will rest, and the rest we wait to see.