For all my troubled thoughts
and locust lines,
squiggly marks sneaking like worms throughout my mind, And
when there is rain inside my brain,
               and muddy streets and parks
teeming tremorously with torn houses and machines,
                                         All mixed in a puddle of disorder,
She,
the fair miss,
white like innocence
and with skin like freshly clean clothes,
lends to me-
volunteers to me,
Her ears,
her eyes,
her body,
and her soul.
She surrenders her life to me,
and, 

becomes a cradle of peace,

My own sea that rocks the muddled puddles and grimy waters of my thoughts
lulling them to warm tranquility
that my mind sips like tea.

And her touch is her smell;
soft.
And she feels infinite,
      for that’s how many of my thoughts she holds.
      She is my balcony,
             and though her body is formless
she is the reason I have form.
Like the vast empty-full
      infinitely sensational sky,
she beguiles me that my stale chaos has some sense.

With raindrops on a forest;
she is the leaf I sleep on,
letting my body loose;
so loose
in fact
that
I just melt right through,
Leaving my shell outside,
And my essence diffusing with hers,
We are an essence.