there are the fables where you are queen
and i am yours for the taking
scenarios where thunderbolts clap
over a scene of raw carnal pleasure
and you of course
are the pleasure
there is contrived dialog and innuendoes
that lead one astray
in the wonderful world of wandering
where words are the gibberish of release
and sweet nothings are priceless
there are drips from the faucet
metaphors form torrents of spasms
that seep into dreams about
your smile becoming a kiss
me at the edge of the bed with
a fulcrum that moves your world
and suddenly poetry is not words
but the movement
of your hips