When all is said and done
with the day we lie
as one form splayed on our bed:
poetry’s slaves here shackled
fast to the word.
Now beaten, now caressed,
perplexed and often
moved by rhythm’s rhyme
to tears and more -
if there’s a sweeter gift this side
of love’s kiss it waits upon another page,
which we may turn one night,
and finding fall into pleasure’s pain.