If she were my dreams,
she would be endless impossibility.
I would tell her lies; [you cannot]
love outside of the world your hands grasp--
that is obsession.

If I were forever being-toward-her,
she would be a golden statue I undressed with my eyes,
Hands being-toward-molesting her breasts and inner thighs
frozen in an idyllic block of ice.

If she were in my hand,
she would be as a pliant diamond writhing:
crushed to gem in stern grasp[,] trying
to cope with the obsession of a static pose.

But when we dance, we step on toes
and, laughing, find cheer in trusting capriciousness.
I find her hand and grasp it {no diamonds}--
only pale flesh in union.

Together[,] we are
only pale flesh in union.
Uncontrollably unlimited,
she is far more than a dream of a diamond I molest.

We never found that eachother that was caressed.
Laying together we are a great touching-of-hands[--]
that never melts into the coin that was impressed
upon us--
just
two hands in accord
drawing two dancers together.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Mayan, in the year 432 AF.