I’ve pretty much been writing a poem a day for a while. So far I’ve been able to salvage 5.
When he whirls her round and round
her patterned waist rat-tatts his hands.
Her mind is oppositely wound
and cannot spin with beer and glands
surrender to a lilting sound
and yield a body for a flower.
She wants a word of power.
What brief and commonplace return
does he expect he can extract
with mutterings of burn and yearn?
What deep attention she’d exact –
he ought to fear what he could learn
what groaning locks he might unbolt,
let loose what fierce, fleet colt.