Here's another love poem.
There aren't enough love poems in the world,
so here's one more for you.
"My Pastoral."
She's got eyes of cornflower.
Blue, eye lashed, blonde, barely.
In the case of my wanting Friday night done right, my love,
I almost wrote lobster.
Yes, I want to be your lobster.
Goodness, there is an ice pick between lover and lobster
who has the softest, sweetest hands.
I nearly said plans.
What has happened to Freud's term,
the convulsive act of happiness.
Flipped into a boiling pot, drained and buttered.
I thought better of myself then thought cartilaginous
claws nut cracked to shard.
You are the softest, sweetest meat.
I almost said milk.
I may have.