Poverty of man

    turns rich soil dark,

    and I bake in earthly labor,

        turning cocoa with sweat —

        trial stuck, pasted,

            compressed against skin.

My days peel off,

    tender to your glance.

Dear, good friend,

    woman become sister,

        I pine for hope,

        and rest beside you.

Salt the night

    with your kiss,

    and draw moonglow close

        with touch of feather-heart.