Sick Leave

My dear,
I saw you laying there and came to inquire
the fire that burned beneath your skin
was it for life, or love or to reach desire.
I would require not much and have to nurse
in the cold, thinking of what recipe would I use
to bring you back from the brink of your bodies toll.
I could console and tell you my soul and hope to the gods
I could tell you another day more of the adventures
we both share, although different, leading new
streets, approaching different ties, but although different beds
secluded in knowledge, transforming lies, perhaps with song
and with words I could chill your fever and brighten your smile
or cold limbs replying only like the wise. Kings of old know not in their
many illustrious wives, of how much it means to see you there
in the bed comprised, of my love, embers in the rain, not yet drenched
evening temperature in the world, my hands holding your head
in all simplicity quiet and noticing your curls.

Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
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