I ******* random throated titles,
how do they taste aloud,
in the early bedroom air,
where poems complete,
must at day's end return,
to go to breathe,

(to be  reread and merit evaluated in the honesty of the
ColorlessNight)

to meet a state of completion,
worth writing, this new conception,
for the team's tryouts, a new notion?


she

hears my desalinated rumbling mumbles,
"say what you said again,"
demurring t'was nothing,
but she won't be deferred not,
she knows better the
my~ways
than me,
half or mostly asleep,
she insistent tough,
even though she won't recall,
seconds later,
nonetheless,
"tell me what you said!"

easier to confess
the title of a poem next
trying, tasting than defer,
soon thereafter Easy Button hit,
it,
writes itself:

To Be With You

*to be with you,
mon raison d'être,
the one, the only,
the never lonely season
my valid lateness excuse, teach!
my validity, my reasoning,
my incensed senses present proof,
my existence passport stamped,
boy, you are poem purposed,
to be with her!