Oscillations

Girl, I'd write you a poem.

I'd write about your inflected accent –
how it tickles my ossicles
with violent flutters

hammeranvilstirrup
hammeranvilstirrup

until the whole damn chamber
clutters with echoes
of you;

and how
all the while
my heart's torm-
ented by the silent passion
in your eyes, and I
shrink away from you
like a Gorgon
from a mirror.

But words alone – they mean but little,
and are fickle, and verbose;
and the Poem often withers
even faster than the Rose.