Confession Poem

If I wrote you a poem,
Soft, but grand in expectation,
You'd tell me I dream too much,
You'd tell me I know you not,
What scheme do I draw you on?
What remains of "you" in me
when there has not been "we"?
This is the irony of poems-that-make,
Of songs that bear themselves
like a universe summoned into being
out of nothing broken, nothing spent.

This is why it will not have roses,
Roses are gentle and thorny,
Any rough hand can take them
with fingers careful to feel,
No.
I'd tell you of the sunflower instead,
The blind seed grows to the Sun
when it does not know what moves it,
The ripe stalk bends backwards
as if it heard the rapture of being
inside the passing sunbeam,
stroking its petals with the glow
of fires that it does not see,
of fires that it cannot see.

This, then, is a confession poem,
I am blind and burning,
I know nothing of you,
But that is hardly the point,
And you know it.