- Erotic Poetry
- Ecstatic Muse
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perhaps she is, sitting on a bench in McCarren Park
filing her nails, texting friends,
sowing scraps of stale bread for overfed birds.
Or if there's ecstasy in laundry, she would know
how to find it, sifting whites from reds and greens,
cottons from lacy underthings.
She could well be ecstatic in the street,
blessing the sidewalk with her long-limbed stride,
or in a supermarket aisle, picking up kale
and shiitake mushrooms to stir-fry
while watching old Kurosawa movies on AMC.
I don't know, really,
when or if she ever is,
nor if her ecstasy takes form as Saint Teresa of Avila
or Bonnie Raitt. I can only wish
for my own improvident, impudent dream,
of twisted sheets and tousled hair
and little breathless whimperings.
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