Endangered Poet

When I shower you with gifts, while

Introducing curved temples of temptation

That tremble at your touch.

Oh, no, to fall to that franchise

Of sexual imagery,

When I describe that slow-moving spoon

That intrudes your lips,

Parting them, stealing from the tongue

Its tastes,

Is the worst.

I must be frank,

I lack the skills

At the poet's tree to fill

your pockets from here on

With fantasy.

So, I will not be a poet when

your wet lips part,

breath sweet, the smell of grapes,

radiant like glowing stars

coated pink; when they

possess my personal space,

lips so close to mine,

hourglass-slow, and linger in the air,

a deep space a half-inch wide, eyes clenched

waiting for a surprise.