Poem: To A Gardener in California

Upon toob's urging, I'm submitting poetry to Reed Magazine in California. I'm including the same three poems I submitted to Poesia earlier in the year, and this one -- I won't say anything about the poem itself (just because it's one of those things where extra words just confuse things), but I will say it's been hard to come up with new stuff I'm happy with. I keep coming up with half-poems that are really great, but once I get to the middle-game I just lose it. What was I saying again? This poem kind of suffers from that, and the ending is vaguely unsatisfying. Even after submitting it, I'll probably start pruning and shaping.

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To A Gardener in California

The trouble with words
is that there are none
to describe the feeling that crosses my eyes
over the curve of your back
when I put my nose against your side
or how my embarrassment melted
(and reformed naked next to you in the morning)
when good old John sung exactly what I thought
or how good it felt to buckle my knees
against the bathroom wall.
There isn't anything to say how
the world is terrible in its beauty
when you see the sun sit in grey fog over silver water,
refracting endlessly,
and there's nothing worthy
of recalling how comfortable my vulnerability is
or that I would open myself to little deaths with you
over and over and over again.
I hope you know this:
that every time I squeeze your hand
or stare at you in stupid awe
I conjure new words,
silent and unrepeatable,
a one-time-only product of every spontaneous joy
that follows the trace of petals that simply bloom.