FOR THE OWL WOMAN

There will always be words left un-written.
Let me try
as I will
to spit them
inky vowels
onto refined bark.
Such as these,
the words that feed you.
Words that are paintings
and concertos,
words that allegro
when your heart is
marching up your ribs,
words that turn to soil
should you feel like dying
or a lover should you choose to sleep
in the strokes of some strange
and steady script.
There will be words
that are lost on parted lips
drowning in Lethe
and those that do not escape
the humming of a stranger's
lilting throat.
But let me gather them
(roses scrawled and scattered)
and put them on your table:
petals, thorns
and overtures 
for you to taste.