Poor asymmetriphobic Eileen missed
out on the Picasso show. John and I
had the most marvelous time, but Eileen
pointed out that we all have our bugbears.

Yield signs, dandelions, saffron rice make
xanthrophobic Ike wild. Beth frets over
peanut butter sticking to the roof of
her mouth -- arachibutyrophobic

she is, honest to God! Didnít we know
that the first poet to write a sonnet
always paid for the extra coffee roll
for fear of taking the bakerís dozen?

And here I am tossing iambs to the
wind, freed by my own insignificance.

sonnet in a soup tureen

On Snaildays we loaf around the house and
loofah round breasts and apple-cheeked bottoms,
let the clawfoot tub keep the grip on the ground while
we suspend belief in jasmine foam.

You tap your tunes down my xylophone spine.
dem bones     dem bones     Brassy bluesy
saxophones wail climaxes into
infinite tunneled hours of Snaildays.

Bloody Marys, sweet smoke, poems you compose
for me in earthenware bowls of alphabet soup
serenade me on a wide-bodied Guild,
on hipped curves, raspberries on belly-buttons.

My heart can barely hold words you bend and fold
into wire and tissue paper poppies   you turn me inside out.

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