(In a letter to his wife,  Wallace Stevens, confided that writing was "absurd" as well as fulfilling.  What of reading the write?)
What makes you read on?  Exquisite words?  Or
Exquisite thoughts?  Ah, exquisite words forming
Exquisite thoughts.  At times so beauteous as to be
Painful!  Meter clipping along, tremulous tones trilling,
Making the reader thrill in the "Ah, yes!" moment.
Writing poetry is absurd, if you think about it.  
An absurdity bore of necessity.  
The reading, a veracious devouring
Of sustenance.  The substance of souls poured out.

When it is dark enough to hold the stars in your hands
And caress the mighty heaven's vast expanse with fingertips,
Look up.  That sky is efflorescent.  O!  All those stars
In phosphorescent twinkle, the clouds so effervescent,
Together boil an exhilarating brew.  
My lover's gaze is contagious, you see.  
May it intoxicate you to see design.

Flowers whisper your name,
A breath that hangs around my face.
I want to press my nose against you,
Inhale you deep, exhale your gold dust
To color a moonlit way with the essence.
Love has placed stepping stones, which we follow,
A path, leading into the bower of our night garden.

Venom, sharp as a razor;
The *** in your hand swings
Separating body from head.

The thing wriggles a figure eight;
A caress of self with no comfort.
Life dries rust-red in the sun.

Your white velvet soothes
When the magnolias bloom
Heat parches our lips

I am not in love.  But I am not dead.  
And I can replay thoughts of us in my head.

I can remember the feel of it then.
O, how we loved in times lean and thin.

Our yesterdays can never be broken
With each sunrise comes something to hope in.

With you I could feel again.
I am not in love, now.  But I am not dead.

Stay-