Hae.mi, I want the secret intensity of collusion
Not that I know what fiery touches are, I who have done without
The touch of the body or the needs of men
And if, my body becomes no longer mine
Would I pretend to blame a muse I know so well
From the darkness of time, where someone calls me
Surely she has no wings, only words to say that I am scoundrel or throng
And I, faltering through the calls of art
Yearn not for unity, but for intensity’s brightest wick
Where loving is for the mind, and not the senses to burn
Hae.mi, what I have become that I require not
The agony of the heart to feel alive
Or an army of the loins to feel as if I should possess
I am not that kind of lover, anyways
Only the poet’s unseen hand, and the touch of the eyes
Sowing seeds of language, where I am blind
Hoping for friendship in the ambiguity between the genders
Gone is thus rippling radiant youth and her precocious lies
Through my curiosity is still as hungry as the dawns
That first looked jeweled upon thee, for divinity suckled
In the womb of all things valuable and lovely
Like a beautiful dream, where I witness you Hae.mi.
Wuji Seshat 