Poetry is the prose that is produced by the curve of your smile and the twinkle of your eyes as they defy rhyme by line every **** time making visual couplets and sensual pentameters which are as iambic as the way your words float every time you speak in that lovely alto that creates a sestina and a haiku and a sonnet and an intrepidness in my hands as they run through your hair smooth as Bukowski ******* his working class ****** earning protests from Sylvia Plath heard through the oven door which you hog so often and I laugh when you do so I sit you down and say I'll get your breakfast baby don't worry and you smile that prose poetic smile that seems to be the indefatigable source of all these literature and damage to my soul which is not mutually exclusive