Strange act of love, this rambling enumeration of fact.
We should have slept hours ago but common senses bless us.
Evening was a pouch wherein one small couple played.
Now morning slim as you comes sneaking in upon us.
We knew what we were doing, shopping out sizes to match,
selecting salts and spices as staples for the private parts we taste.
Soon, interlaced, we’ll communicate more flavours in sleep.
So keep on reciting the childhood you invent as you go along.
Talk till your eyes are sleepy prisms, your lids droop with dreams.
Poetry by George Lang