I love you in predictive quatrains and in the secret language of twins.
My love is revealed in weather anomalies,
sea changes, and the Rorschach of sunspots.
Here is the reason for my fingertips:
your hair, your skin.
Here is the sure sign of intelligent design:
your dark eyes, the smile at the corner of your lips.
In the madhouse, men think they are God.
Churches become madhouses for doing the same.
I am mad enough--I want to say to you, girl,
fuck my brains out, make me beg to get inside you,
marry me, tie me up, get me pregnant,
make the room reek of us and then write poems about it.
Kiss me in the middle of the mall, hold my hand.
Duplicate my desire in an uncontrolled environment.
Love me in dog years, seven for one.
Viva la revolucion.