Inexact Science

Gaze savoring

the narrative of a fantasy novel,

you smokily

drifted up from the pages.

And if I close my eyes,

picture your haze-form,

poetry writes itself

in my head.

Much better than anything

I could ever conjure

with my own hands.

You're that cloud

hovering ahead,

shaped like a half-dream -

temptingly attainable

but just out of tangible reach

like tomorrow's plans.

How I lust to discover

and disseminate

your heart-clutters

across the beach

like rain in the sand,

where later,

I can shape you,

make you fully concrete.

But sometimes clarity arrives,


in mists of ambiguity

where it'd be best

to ingest

than extract.

Maybe it's better

you stay inexact.

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