Fumbling Poem by Marc Mannheimer

my hands

all over these words,

fumbling with them

like a 16-year-old boy,

a first-time lover,

stumbles across

dream terrain

with his hands

and his misplaced kisses.



it takes an almost absent lover

to make this body,

this page

Sing.



forget your noise,

your exploitation of inside,

sift through the rough diamonds

of your mind,

and piece together

a flowing necklace

for Her.