Friday, September 14, 2007

some lusty haikus and tankas

I have not yet seen
your living room--and I
know it is dirty.
In my mind, you arch your back
into sunlight and dust motes.

Listening to you
explain imaginary
numbers like sweet, rich
gossip: write an equation
for my cells that call your name.

Your lower lip begs,
without pout, to be bitten.
I will grant its wish.

Quick: hand me a lamp.
I'll rub. Tonight I feel like
I could conjure you.

Your buckled elbows
relinquish your body to
gravity; you're pulled
into me, and I exhale--
at last, I am close enough.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Is this the dearest Jones who would remember a favored Jane Miller poem?

Happy New Year,

Deborah