No one ever loved me in the way you do, my love.
Your presence almost blinds me with its pristine
thereness while all the while my acute awareness
haunts itself to see I’ve always given far more
than I ever got and all the whirly-burning needs
which filled my soul were left outside to rot like
afterbirthful bleeds as wound-up uterinal inserts
swirled around my spermicidal polka-dotted
disenchanted slow-garrotted thunderous desire.
No one ever coddled me the way you do, my love.
Undergirded playfully by sense-seeking missives
from your bow I retro-faithfully know by the manner
of your arrow’s arc that everything we think we are
will grow unleashed by sparks of underoverflowing
waves of ungreen seaful tidiness which gracefully
ride the whitehorse crests of a wisely widening
broadway of bare unbridled dreams. For everything
that’s us is infinitely more than what at first it seems.
© 2012, Alan Morrison