Unmet is this need that doesn’t carry a name.
Maybe if I sweep
it will fade into a corner under the carpet,
but that never works, does it?
Unmet this need will stay
until I weep it away,
let the curtain dry my tears
as the sky breathes onto my face
through an open window in the fall.

Meet me where the river
turns towards tenderness
the need may say, and
pour your achings into
Her cupped hands.
I shall go and forget
the carpet and the curtain
as the broom turns dust into dreams.