I’m just too much in love to be poetic -
I can’t commit this passion to the page.
My superstitious heart becomes frenetic.
“Don’t write it down, or it might start to fade.”
I’m sure there must be many ways of speaking
Without repeating what’s been said before,
But I can’t find the phrases I am seeking
And repetition soon becomes a bore.
This poet’s heart demands at least a sonnet.
This lover’s hand prefers to work with touch.
My fingers find your body, write upon it
“I want you now,” – “I love you far too much.”
Why should I try to turn us into art
When I am safe, bound, painted in your heart?
(2001)
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