There will come a time
when all my notebooks
will be full of poetry.
I’ll be forced to scrawl
poems in the margins
of books, on the backs
of grocery store receipts,
all along the floor and
across every wall in this
house and then I will
grab your hand and
pull you into the bedroom.
I will undress you, expose
all the naked parts of you,
and I’ll make love to you like
you are one of my notebooks
and my fingers are inkpens;
I mean I will find poems
for every inch of your skin,
for throat and thigh, for
shoulderblades and hips,
poems to wind their way
into the wisps of hair at
the back of your neck,
poems for earlobe and
clavicle, for palm and wrist
and the arch of your small foot.
I will write the tiniest poems
to fill up the spaces
between your fingers
and to fill the spaces
between your toes
and to fill the spaces
between your skin and mine.
