By Stephen Mead
At least, erupt in our touch, touch even as our voices make the Atlantic
some tin-can cable stretching time as spun-glass candy, & - too much -
I think; I feel too much should we split & the hair brush remind me
of combined strands, or should even the supermarket
pipe our particular song in the worst possible Muzak
reeling me back to the love that was accidental as life change
when you gave me power over you, said I filled all the holes,
& mainly what my whole best self sought was the wilderness
of nature's strength to free us if only to each other
when loving beyond need, when luckier to have our worries
& to have our paradise of at least three thousand goose bumps,
& counting.
Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these jobs he was able to find time for writing poetry/essays,and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this work. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/
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