rhymes kept slapping against my ears today
as though I were spelunking strafed by bats
in the mad cavern of platonic here-now.
but the butterfly net of my attention,
Liza, was inadequate to trapping,
capturing these bats to paste here in our
living scrapbook. so this poem, I’m sad
to report, is colored in with meager
words unrhymed and perhaps a little dull.
and that’s all okay, Liza, because it is
excellent and good to have dull days
with which to contrast our nights together
dancing in pirouettes through life, kissing
remembrance upon each others lips.
David M Pitchford
26 Dec 2011