For the Masseuse in the Fur Coat

There are no miles (smiles though are real)
There is no road, but this and you - where you are -
a closed door - and open sky between friends -
Thus fully be-furred and unbe-spectacul(ar)ed,
she - want(on)ing - becomes the very
smile of a distance that does not exist
except in space. All poetry is al(l)ways thus
an art form of scuplted time captured
... from the image into words or - reversed -
and souleriffically unpromised by this we
that does not grow but for all the universe
expands to fill full the empty want of every then
and every now since. Oh, she, she cold
she warm, she so far and kneeding only
flesh of strangers and the strange, be not
estranged from us - the wee we who are you
r friends.