someone once told me as poets
words are all we’ve got.
they’re what we have instead of sexual prowess.
when he said this
it took everything to supress my laughter, because
isn’t poetry what makes us
tigers and snakes in the sheets-
clawing and roaring and twisting and turning
as though it could save our full-sized home
from a life where hours exist?
i wanted to point this out but
i missed my chance-
fear sat heavy on my tongue
can old and young
man and girl talk about such things
without the sun forgetting to set and
lingering bright-eyed with shock?
would the crepuscular light not have aged into night
had i said more than a quiet smile?
is writing about such things for the eyes of the world
worse or better than speaking them?
anyway, i understand;
i am ashamed of my vocabulary-
i just think all artists share a gift beyond wordscolorsound.