A critic said what poets write about
Is rubbish, it’s how they write that matters —
And that no one can write well about love.
The nonsense of a literary tout,
Who delights in poetry he shatters
With a crippling whip in a satin glove.
I don’t remember our first kiss, the kite
She’d made was loose and sailing out of sight.
It was probably then, on our first date,
When the only thing to do was to wait
For the kite’s return, like a falcon called —
Embracing, we felt tongues and lips scald.
The moisture and heat since then are the same,
Without diminution, beyond a name.
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