There's always some desperate poet
who will write lines about humans
they know in a horizontal manner.
And how they are like seas,
comparing their lover to a ragged coastline.
And I'd be lying if I said
"I never found any attraction to the
coastal metaphors, myself."
But because the salt on your skin
whether of my sweat or yours,
is not so rough.
Nor your swollen tears
Nor could your being
be compared to its finite shores;
I'd sooner say you were some fawn or woodly creature
crawling down from leaves
to walk the earth, yet still
sprung from her.
Not so isolated as the black sea,
which explains the wildered Autumnal leafy smell
of your hair,
the clasp of your dirty lips on mine
like roots. Your arms
I want to crawl into you and live there
amongst the reach for heavens which is your
mind, instead of some
to drown in the pool of eyes and glances.
Not to say that your eyes are not beautiful; they are.
But I had rather steep
and come out whole again...
If you've any comments on this poem, Robert Champion
would be pleased to hear from you.