Let this poem write itself tonight
As I gaze at you sleeping on my bed–
Watch it grow through simple images
Undisturbed by dubious similes
And mixed metaphors, trying to capture
The silent loveliness I see.
Let the landscape not be crowded
With the usual cliches
As I stretch and touch your hair.
Let it not blow hot, blow cold like all of us
As you turn and hug a pillow to your breasts–
The poem is written. I hold my breath.