Terri always comes home from a party a little jazzed,

A little high, a little drunk.

I don’t mind. She’s quieter in bed, more to my nature. 


My hand glides over satin hills, 
Comes to rest on the summit,
Lingers, savors, contemplates,
Forgets time and place, becomes 
Lost in sensation while birdsong
Whispers without, breeze chants 
Harmony, surf acts the metronome.


I wonder if Professor Eliot will scold me for this romanticism. 
He’ll say the form is haphazard.
He’ll ask what meter I’m using, and why.


There is patience, there is impatience.
My hand that is still cannot be still.
The summit rises and falls, sounds
Fall away until there is only the rush 
Of breath, the intake, the exhalation,
The intake, the halt, the exhalation, 
A rhythm beat in syncopation.


He’ll say the conceit is time-worn,

The imagery cloying.
He may like the aesthetic distance.
He may not.


Autumn sun falls seaward, falls away
To dusk, to night, gives way to moonlight, 
Soft light revealing satin devoid of color, 
But rich in shades of grey.  Outside—
A hint of cool.  Inside—no, what was
Temperate is no longer so. No, what
Was steady heartbeat is no longer so.


He may concede points

Without conceding victory.


What is felt is given, what is given is felt.
Richness flows, an inland stream,
Salt-laced, delta bound, pulled 
By this half-moon tide, pulled, willed,
Incanted by the song, the breeze, the surf.

He’ll have me read 'Piers Plowman.'

I’ll tell him I’ve been reading Sappho.

What he doesn't know is that victory lies in my arms.