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Poetry

I am the whisper
matches rattle
in their cold
and boxy hovels.
I’m desire
gone to ground.
I am efficient,
almost secret;
you can read in me
such scripture
of the most compacted
and contented
red-light district.
Impish sample seraph,
humblest
in lust,
I am the apocryphalest
rumor waiting
just around the corner.
See me meekly,
furtive, simmer;
I am bright and quiet;
I am blithe and ardent;
I am softly, briefly
urging: Garner in
my hand-cupped
spark and I
will make
your faring warmer,
yearnful, closer,
wider, darker.


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