This is not a love poem
It does not bemoan the loss
Or emboss the hidden desire
Nor polish some loved one to a shiny point.
No, this poem does not anoint love for being exemplary
But instead praises the pricks that pop up like totem poles
And the pink places that open
The things that happen when touches harpoon control
The way lightning occurs when bodies curve together
When the threads and cords that pull couples close
Are the hormones and moaning that shakes the walls
When it all comes together for a glorious fuck.
No, this is more a lust paean.