Le Poète Foncé
I drag the dark poet off to bed
that she might dream violently
even in her sleep
she spawns words that
conspire with each other to form a net
stretching out, across the waters, trawling
for whatever might lose itself in the lace, the silk, stick
to the Velcro, hook itself on
those sharp little, bright-steel claws
I will not struggle, so much
is a given
I cannot escape
she need not concern herself that, like
a sea-snake I will find a hole big enough
to slip into (but I mean `through’) so
fish-clever, smart-scaled and oozing slipperiness
she tells me
all things considered it
would be far less
hassle to
simply tickle me
out of the water
catch me
in her fingers. Take
me in hand.