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What are you waiting for?
You sneezed like a drunken trombone
shouting loud Creator’s name
and my heart, my poor foolish
kite-flying tambourine of a heart
thought you were singing sonnets.
So I danced. On our mattress.
Until the bed splintered
like wood for kindling Gnostic joy.
You turned emerald inside a dream
and your hair smiled across my face
like a perfumed sonata
sprinkling piano dust over the ocean.
Thus I woke and screamed, “Look!
Look! Winter at last is dead and gone!”
Naked I ran through moonfire
and broke frozen ground
that I might sow seeds of fleshy bliss
and watch them blossom tributes
to the lyrical rose of your beauty.
Naked I nibbled your thorns to their quaking core.
But what is this sweet annihilation
of all sense and sensibility
each time love flies through the door
of my heart’s mud-and-stick palace?
What is this slow blue dream of living,
and this fevered death by dreaming?
You begged me to tell you where
day hides night, and night hides you.
Are mine the lips to say dear poet?
I am just a broken-headed lion
stalking game up on passion’s rooftop,
roaring teeth at the moon that once was my mind,
exploding bones at the scent of stars weeping wine.
