Today's poem is by Nathan Hoks
To His Mistress Going to Bed
O Central Nervous System,
take down your hair and come to bed.
The druids did not keep diaries,
but said their prayers
and were done with it.
The Eurasian plant droops at our feet
a plea for rainsomehow its leaves
already seem wet. Small and white,
the flowers spread and hover, each stem
a street of open umbrellas.
Meanwhile, night. It oozes
and surrounds us.
We can go rough hewing, or yodel
the abandon in your gaze, cross
the open field of your abdomen.
Must we prolong the dearth? The sound
of a gallop crosses your face.
Muffle me, Optic Nerves, smother me
in the black ski mask of your undressing.
One sound bleeds into another
Sparrow the blood form the humming
I drown in a faint echo
whose source I cannot locate.
Copyright © 2003 Nathan Hoks All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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