VII.
      
She told me, the bed is a womb
Where men are conceived and birthed,
A refuge from the raging storm,
A solace for the hatred that haunts the earth.
      
But the wounds in our hearts will never heal
Until we let go our hope and fear.
Nothing we name or touch is ultimately real:
There is no immutable substance here.
       
I search for myself in every woman I meet,
Expectations roused in every bed I share—
Plumb mysterious depths beneath the sheet
In search of a self that isn't there.

E-mail Ed Buffaloe