Come Live Alone With Me
Whitman feels it burning in him,
always substance, always sex,
the sap rising, grapes fermenting.
Look for him under our boot-soles,
he says; he’ll show us how to dance.
Or listen well to Keats: his ode
where two young lovers’ urgencies
are always just about to crest.
Come on! Have not we done
the love-fade mishap half to death!
If less is more, try something less
this time—be wife and husband
summers only, mow the lawn,
clean the basement, feed the cats,
make money, mow the grass again.
First signs of fall, unplug the clock,
for months on end not quite kiss.
©James L. Ralston