My Imagination at Night

Sometimes when we lay in bed, listening to the darkness and the murmurs of candles, watching the moon chuckling like a hyena behind my gray, rusty window grilles, holding hands, kissing, or even twining legs before sex, I think about poetry. I think about words and a bucket of sounds where consonants and rhythms splash around; like naked boys with green eyes in a pond by the cabin. I imagine words raining on your face, washing away worries that have come with your profession. Creating trees, and sprigs, and little sprouts of rosemary smells dancing mazurka through the cones of your ears. And yellow leaves, like oreoles, growing from your tongue. Forming shapes and leaving roots, burrowing stalks of secrets through the trails of your veins. You remind me of olive. Or Neptune or a panther. You remind me of ribbons. And ruby stones at the palm readers. You remind me of the barber shop on the Latin edge of Mulberry Street, where dandelions on the window ledges mate with the bees. You are Neruda and Plath. Saenz and Woolf. Morphed into a yarn of my covetous imagination. And the only time I am back to reality, at 1 am on Second Avenue, is when you whisper and say, baby it's time to sleep.