Air without crossing.
I'm tired of your tattoo
and the long, long taboo;

your crackling derision,
a ciggy and a sneer
on the sun-wiggly pier.

These words made of lesions—
if I venture past hello,
I'm in for a blow.

You scoff at communion.
You want a pretty neck
that wilts into heck.

So starve well and listen:
the no-no words will freeze
themselves into keys.

Without even knowing,
you gave me real estate.
Free gab can be great,

but this is still greater:
a music room, a door,
some sounds and a floor.

This built-in forgiveness:
"Who enters here, be still."
Why, thank you. I will.