I had tea today with lost poets.
I let them lay across my lap
as sun streamed in
to warm my back.
Yellow pages not turned in years
softened between my thighs.
And I listened
while ghost words came to life.
As I spoke them aloud
Emerson landed at my knees,
flowed down my shins, my feet,
went up and over freshly painted toes.
I thought: What a lovely contrast;
light pink polish against an arrangement
of red and orange Gerber daisies.
It was the Music of the poem
I was trying to hear.
But somehow it disappeared
when the finches flew away.
Sexual. So captured and whimsical, but there is love-making in this poem. To poetry and to the reader. I love it. The parts and the feel are most of all touching in tandem. don't let me be too crass. It's great:) I would fave this and publish it.
I'd like to dance around in the comments section of this poem for a bit.
But I'm not sure how to adequately do that in words. This poem seems to get distracted from being itself at the same time the figure (is that the right word? I'm trying to remember my one semester of poetry) becomes distracted from the poem. Yet it's the poem/poet that distracts her in the first place. It's wonderfully gushy and flowing (and I mean these as compliments) like a warm waterfall that leaves one feeling startled and refreshed and a wee bit confused, which is a good place to be no matter what they say.