Fragment for My Love

[Lightning Rod]

The Woman was a rampant influence
She swatted spam viruses with one hand
and multi-tasked with the other. It wasn't
unusual to find her writing verse in her head.

She moved like her pelvis was the Center
of the Universe and hers was the only smell
you ever knew. She prefers to call it a scent.
Her only lament is that it takes two arms to touch her own elbows.

If Spring is a crested edifice, devout in its petals,
an insurrection of tubers and sprouts,
laying spread legged like
a virgin with some experience
she could entice me
with a heave of her breast
or a grind of her hips.

If a tulip is my muse, she is jealous of it.
When she catches me looking at an iris
she really flips out; she knows how long they last.

[dadio]

Now this is poetry.