If I must take another lover, as my lonely tells me I must, let it be Poetry.

Let her come to me naked
with wisps of music wrapped around her wrists and ankles,
with words woven into the waterfall of her hair.

Scorpion's milk will spill from her lips where they touch mine,
to fill my belly with her soothing fire.

I will lay Poetry down on the grass, beside the dogwood tree,
and sink my teeth into her soul.