Ode to Ink
       

There has to be a heart in a book
and a heart's ink,
not just curdled anxieties.
My shadow's shadow,
grave work,
sparrow nest I've tipped from a tree.
Dance was right: hell ought to be designed.
Some write in electronic ice.
Some with webs,
some with thistle down.
Generally, I'm in another precinct.
It spots my pillows, my blouses.
I've snagged my fingertips through ink's thorns,
and if I get to you
and you're still asleep
I won't kiss you by halves.
For once I won't think.

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Copyright © 2012 Lee Upton All rights reserved
from New Madrid
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission