Your love,
without relief of occasional plosive hi-howya-doin’s,
without punctuation of kisses
or hugs,
feels like
a maelstrom.
Its whirling me,
its force
in ferment,
takes me
to uneasy places,
when I’d rather be by you
listening to your voice
like still,
soft water.

This entry was posted in ...writers' work, composing, inspiration, later poems, other arts, sonics, writing poetry. Bookmark the permalink.