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