if I should see him shopping
at the mall
 
or at somewhere somewhen
down a hall,
 
I’ll be sure to congratulate
St. Paul
 
on his play in last week’s  volleyball

a busy poet once incurred
some nonstrategic rents
 
in his sulf’rous underpents
 
that poor guy aborted then
the penning of this here poem
 
for to sew ‘em

right now is prime
tomato
harvest time
 
so do eat hearty---
whether you be
Laurel … or Hardy
 
I’d further rhyme,
but sun dropped just then
and so’d my pen;
 
it’s my bedtime

beneath smalt skies of June
hangs there a pale-blue moon
awaits the night
without sun’s light---
sans cloaking shawl
or filt’ring pall---
somewhere ‘bove Rangoon …
or p’raps o’erlooking somewhat
a tamed Vermont.
moon’s patience dimmed,
her silence mute and gaunt---
to gnostic eye,
her face light-limned---
she bides her time within
accounting for her sin
till dimps has pulled
his holey curtain then,
when she not longer waits
for night to fall.

Touch my face,
caress every inch of my skin,
come as close to me as possible,
fill my body within.
Close your eyes,
and whisper to me your fantasy,
let my passion flow into you,
become one with me.
Wrap your love around me,
tell me what you feel,
lay me down on your bed of serenity,
and your heart I’m going to seal.
Take your sweet time,
touch me everywhere,
undress me of all my clothes,
as if we had not a minute to spare.
Run your fingers
soft and slowly through my hair,