Poetry month

The words are too small.
I love you. I’m sorry. Thank you. Please forgive me.
Such tiny sounds desperate
To convey truths too enormous.

Cinnamon toast is hard, soft, gritty and lubricated
All at the same time. And you can’t taste cinnamon-
It’s a smell. Somehow these disparate realities converge
Into something so apparently mundane
But ultimately divine, as the words: cinnamon toast.

It fits in my mouth more holy than these anemic words.
It comes to me at a chilly Formica table where
Grandmas beautiful toes pad about like mine,
And when two sleepy children ask who to be,
And in my own ashram that is peaceful and whole.

And these are good, but they don’t tempt me as much
As when it comes to me, perched on your inner thigh.


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