I write poems
On your skin
Sonnets against the
Soft skin of your
Thighs
Composing upwards
To what is mine
Tongue haiku
But I forget how many
Syllables
Until you reach and take my
Head in your hands
Correcting my grammar
And you ask
Permission to reply
And on sheets
Dripping sweet
Your voice
Grows louder
Than mine
MB Blissett 