How much it pleased me to hear you
say you read poetry in bed!
That’s when you became my muse, love.
So now I ask: When you read poems in bed
do you think how the paper in your hands
is the pallid face of your poet,
now a captive of your beauty and your charm?
that every word is a kiss?
that each “o” is an eye living only –
my beloved – to see your perfect smile?
When sotto voce you form the words,
do you sense the melody of my love
rising… rising, oh dearest lovely one,
throughout your glorious alcove?
Do you hear my song of hope bubbling?
the shout of impassioned calmness
that you create in me, my love?
While you recite the verses louder
so as to better savor their sweetness,
can you feel the phrases’ little fingers
that touch you so whimsically?
or sense the ink’s scent of wine?
the quavering of commas, those
little tongues that always tarry?
Once the rhymes have moved you,
do you then toy with their now spent senses?
Do you sleep with the pages on your breast?
How happy am I still to hear
you share your bed with my ballads!
And how envious, love, am I
of those verses blessed with such good fortune!
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© Gregory V Driscoll 2015