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you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!
you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Sunday, June 11 11:29 AM
2023
in the sunroom
