The Making Of Love

The day Nostradamus predicted
has come to pass

you hold my loving in your hand
in the breast-colored dawn

smoke rises from a poem
a sonnet bigger than its exit

simplicity held at the end of a branch
the blue sweater you curl and curl

from the dirty window, planes descend
at La Guardia like a swarm of glass

afterwards, you sound so Jewish
in the tumult of your panties

as your frisky walk engulfs you
urging you into the kitchen,

hurry back and ruin the Sabbath
with your lips