Reading Someone Else's Love Poems
is, after all, all we've ever done
for centuries—except write them—but what
a strange thing it is, after all, rose-cheeks and sun-
hair and lips, and underarms, and that little gut
I love to nuzzle on, soft under-belly—oops—
that wasn't what I meant to talk about;
ever since handkerchiefs fell, and hoop-
skirts around ankles swirled
and smiled, lovers have dreamed their loves upon
the pages, courted and schemed and twirled
and styled, hoping that once they'd unfurled their down-
deep longing, they would have their prize—
not the songs of love, but love beneath disguise.
is, after all, all we've ever done
for centuries—except write them—but what
a strange thing it is, after all, rose-cheeks and sun-
hair and lips, and underarms, and that little gut
I love to nuzzle on, soft under-belly—oops—
that wasn't what I meant to talk about;
ever since handkerchiefs fell, and hoop-
skirts around ankles swirled
and smiled, lovers have dreamed their loves upon
the pages, courted and schemed and twirled
and styled, hoping that once they'd unfurled their down-
deep longing, they would have their prize—
not the songs of love, but love beneath disguise.
