Sing me, lover, sing me, poet,

sing me pomegranates and headstones.
Sing me into this or that myth.
Sing me into the soft-throbbing body
of a bird in the palm. Sing me
into the throat of a minstrel
in the January of a long, long year.
Sing me a camera lucida or obscura, sing me
how you see me because I can’t. I can
sing you marbleflesh of statue,
pursuit caught. I can sing a sharp
needle into soft flesh, like a just-right word
into talk. I can sing my anger
which sings me sometimes; you say
hard at work, I see and take a look at this,
will you and something about the future.
Sing me a future, shared – scent
of salt-grass, sting of honey, sound
of rice poured into a pan. Please,
poet, lover, please.                         Sing.