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What are you waiting for?
taste My saltine sin
under ashen-sky
temptation rose
the beastly breeze
of her full glass—
where hurricanes hunt,
no backs get turned,
and the God’s pray for rain—
and she sipped,
tasted saltine sin.
Write me a poem your eyes say
bright with enthusiasm.
A poem? But I am not a poet;
I don’t know how to!
Write me something anyway, you insist,
something that rhymes ...
Something that rhymes’?
The way your name rhymes
with the chimes of the clock,
the click of the key in the lock,
the knock-knock-knock
of your knuckles
on the door of my heart
The way your breath
is the sonnet you breathed on my cheek,
the song you shaped on my lips,
the dip-slip-trip of your tongue
in the house of my mouth
The way your being
harmonizes every dissonance in the world,
synchronizes every assonance on this earth,
the way your just being
brings about a singular cosmic
rhyme of love of love of lovelovelove
below, between, all around, above,
a universe
of rhyming prose and verse
that I can never get
enough enough enough
of.
You are the poet, the poem,
the poetry in motion, the
Geetanjali of love, my love,
not me.
