Our Moral Ground

For a second, stand in my space

imagining my surprise
that you make love like I shake hands,
in friendly recompense,

while
for me the expression
needs a deeper artistry,
a continuity.

We cannot be.

Although, this gypsy is attracted
to your wildness, pulled by the throes
of the undiscovered.

In my soul, I am a farmer.
In my soul, I am a poor immigrant.

And both we know
you will never part
with even the smallest parcel

of acreage.