Another poet writes about love
and I'm puzzled.
It's out there for him
in what he calls a lady.
He says she touches him
lightly on the ribs,
but I'm sure it's just his idea
that's touched. Something's missing
in his conception of completion.
He wants her to bring it to him,
be Eve at nightfall coming home,
completing him with tenderness.
I have been with women enough to want
tenderness igniting, sending the ribs
out to their filled extension
and sparks of flame
down the dry tendrils of my arms.
I want to die and rise and never be
completed in tenderness.
I want to burn the covering plants
to the ground and mulch them under.
I want good black earth instead of love.