I Suddenly Imagine

that reading other poets
is like watching other dancers
dance

The kinds of notes one makes :

"nice move"
"beautiful"
"ah"

"I never thought to stretch
in that direction"

"I've never made that gesture
with my hand"

and as much as one admires
the dance-moves

there's always
that burning question :

How would that body
feel against mine ?

We are tempted to demand
such intimacies
of our poets ....

They talk about one lump or two ...

but if the cream doesn't
curl and coil
and bloom against the black
rising up through the heat and the dark,
like a puff of hope,
turning everything in your cup
the colour of a sun-kissed starlet,
then you didn't put in
enough