This Late in Love

Ardor comes as wry comfort this late
in love, a solace that springs and sups
from the very flesh it serves to conflate,
our patron, our rector, our odd grace cup

abrim and aboil in its own obdurate heat.
Tonight, even its opportunist moon stirs
us, a bounteous, mothering breast, a teat
persuading us to suckle, to buck and spur

the shrewd, slow burn whereby we grow
ever more agile and appealing, our faces
the faces we resurrect and will not forgo
for any other fantasy bliss embraces.

As ardor tweaks and acts its bawdy skit
we are its blood, bone, sweat, and wit.

Copyright © 2007 Myrna Stone All rights reserved
from How Else To Love the World
Browser Book Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission