evening exhales a seductive smog,
recalls weekdays lost, in a blissful fog.
cuddles and kisses betwixt a deep vale,
giant peaks that our love could scale.
midnight cries out for assistance,
wonders if our love can still go the distance.
smiles and laughs in a calming lagoon,
on the same day that we tossed diamonds at the moon.
shakespeare never made any sense, despite
his homoerotic evidence. milton never
ripped open his grave, to explain
why lucifer might have the power to save. john keats
never made it to forty, and the evidence says
he was not very sporty.
morning inhales a tempting whiff,
recalls weeknights lost, adrift in a skiff.
whispers and moans in the heart of a forest,
as the flutter of butterflies sang out a chorus.
our intimacy, sweet yet indelicate,
a subject without a predicate
a beginning whose ending?
leaves entire galaxies suspending.
