Poets

Snowstorms in Juneapple blossom in Januarycurve of a morning song, Our sadness chimes withfervour of Cathedral bells. Your mouth tastesof tobaccoraw from the fields, your down covered bodysome swirling sea creaturelaid to rest on my shoulder. We’re not made for other people,with their murmurings and climaxesthey leave us bemused with their idiocy. It’s a question of allowancebreaking mental chains that bind us. We are poets and nothing else mattersnothing except the clime of the verbpunctuated with kisses.