February 4th, 2014


A quicky before going out

Anticipation is love's better part
that never disappoints, can never fade
because unclimaxed. It remains afraid
that fear adds urgency to beating heart

to shuddering cunt. I know the taste of skin
your hand or cheek or neck, but not your thigh
against mine, or the blinking of your eye
on the next pillow; know the mischief grin

you tease your lovers with. Have stroked your hair.
There may be nothing more. This is enough
for poetry is made of flimsy stuff,
of hints and promises. It may not bear

wet heat, fingers inside, sweat pooled on small
of back, dark harmonies that peak then fall.



My poems are not what at first was meant.
The stubborn words and rhymes pull me away
from what at first I thought I wished to say.
What's said is almost that, but curved and bent

pulled firm and taut. The arrow from the bow
of words flies clear and hits a target, not
the one intended but a lovely shot
that ends precisely where it needs to go.

And love's the same; it hurts to be pulled tense
by rules, your other loves, days we don't speak
because of colds or jealousy. I'm weak
but somehow manage turn pain into sense.

Get past the lust you see burn in my eyes.
No love or poems without sacrifice.