Anticipation

There are no stanzas for the unfaithful, no words for those
addicted to words, no couplets for your fingers scrawling out
letters, tracing alphabets of foreign languages they never learned.
The calloused tips flutter over a novel of temptation you want
to wish you never succumbed to but Hemingway's lemonade parted
your lips and circulated blood to your cheeks and every word
is a miracle, orgasmic, an uncertain god who will surely vanish
in your most desperate moment. There are no haikus for that kind
of crumbling, I-warned-you-so loss, no sonnets for the fading memory
of a fading smile, no poems for a broken man.