no poems
in me
but one
I wrote
repeatedly,
so lyrical
are sugar
sweetmeat
lung and brain.
But-oh-my hair
that rises up
to brush in vain
on heaven,
worshipping the wind
that tickles
me, knotting
to the friction
of love's pillow,
bowing to rains
of warm and chill--
if only it could
grab a pen and write.
Joe
the roller of big cigars
