He who
sings songs
in awkward tune
and unpaced meter,
is better than
that who sings
words
with neither
sense
nor
worth.

If I am guaranteed
to lose
every game of love
I play,
I won't love you.

For when you
pace the way
the words
pause, accent,
and stress,
you add to
ideas
which stand
fine on
their own
terms.
And the words
will never breathe.
And the breath
shall be that
which makes
you and that
eye which scans,
one and whole
or making love.

How long can I keep this up,
like a dog before his
master begging for
a scrap, or a
child at the moment
he realizes that he
won't have that candy now,
when he wants it,
or that sandman
peering over the horizon,
desperate for a drink,
so he can set the dreams
into them,
seemingly mocking me
to have a bite,
a drink,
a long long dinner?

and finally
your smooth skin
erases the memory
of pain and suffering,
as we fall
into a deep
deep
intoxication.