At one point (ages and ages ago), I fancied myself a poet. So, largely for my own amusement (or is that debasement), here is something I wrote.
Flint kisses off steel in the darkness
and lightning flashes from a 50 cent piece of plastic
like the hand of god reaching down to blind us
then life returns to cracks of light from the bathroom
and yellow street lamps filtering through the window.
You lie on your stomach, bent at the waist and propped on your elbows
with the blanket pooled around your casual hips
and your face lingering at the edge of your cigarette's glow
there is no world beyond it's fire.
And from roughy the same vintage, I wrote this right after the first time my boyfriend-now-husband kissed me:
Running up the lawn and into the building
up to the room which is only a
literal definition of home
sneaking in quietly, trying not to
wake sleeping strangers
going through the nightly rituals of
preparing myself for god
and finally climbing between purple sheets
rolling on my side to face sleep
cheeks still hot and
heart still pounding from his kiss.
I took this very seriously at the time, now it cracks me up.