because of where you hold your hand

i would love to feel,
to know, your puritan tendency.
table, floor, chair, abyss,
dove-tailed, the pieces find their
kindness (it doesn't hurt-til you make it hurt)
in a sturdy construct of quaker love.
smooth, marbled wood, grain fine as powder,
soft to touch as a woman's peace,
make a place at her breast to stay
a long slow time. on through to the other
side, imagine a way that is not. a road
less travelled, never cut, never cleared
waits for the culmination
of no expectation.