Singing

in front of you
involves for me
all of the hesitations of making love which
flood through my near adolescent mind, shifting
with tremors of uncertainty if
you so much as touch my finger.

Singing is like nakedness, perhaps
the unlooked for nakedness of a dream,
where clothing gone, I go to dress, to speak
and step instead into a room of people, naked,
singing.

For me to begin to sing is to embrace someone, slipping
the note too high or low,
and the odd look that cuts
across my long-limbed love as
I bump shoulders or misplace a hand,
notes falling down and pulling back quickly.

And to hear others sing, voices like
a firm handshake or a careless kiss,
I feel rising the jealous loneliness as
others go off together into music.