I’m addicted to your
desperate rhythms, I rise and fall with your breath
When you stop I stop, breathless.
I’m starving for your
neatness, your careful fingers
sewing buttons with tiny thread through tinier holes
I’m clawing for your
calm, the lake’s surface
hinting at the depth, the way
you create parallel ripples

And so I hurry home
to spill you
and taste you as I spell you out

And when my own writing is done,
I’ll read a poem by Elizabeth Smither
which talks about the gleaming morals of potatoes
Laughing, ha! Potatoes don’t have morals
but on poetry they do

not even once.

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