At the mercy of the wood warp
of indecision, between the famine
within and a compass without range,
I still dance in a sea penciled with despair
for I have learned to float
by not always trying to fly
with every dandelion self that gusts.
In this field of tenderness
like some classic gesture, I catch the moon
at its crossing and wait
for a tide steeped with the naming
of ecstasy.
Richard Bunch
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dangling/
