This was one of those middle-of-the-night poems. You know the kind--the words work through your head and keep on working until you put them on paper and they finally leave you alone. Maybe.
The quiet that
comes when my
veins are all I
hear, when my
lack is on high
is here now--big
and flabby as
Sunday morning
lies. I wait
the long wait
for someone--
even my Petrarchan
me--to lean
close, press the
way no one
does, and say
"You are unnerving
in your beauty"
and mean it.
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