i hope it's ok to post this.  there are thousands of these kinds of poems
written now.  we poets cannot help ourselves.  the images adhere to
everything vital that flows within us and must emerge again.  there's no
escaping it, as much as i'd like to, at times.  and so, there are thousands
of poems like this one, and one more . . .

Untitled

December 26, 2003

No disaster movie ever filmed
the way he pins up the printout
of her image, and perhaps, almost
the image of their unborn child.

Firm, steady, push-pin and smoothing
flat-handedly across the page's edges--
his two fingers move to his lips and
to her paper lips . . . her paper lips.

Both hands, now, frame her paper
face.  Both hands, now, push back
against his body's desire to fall into
and lose itself in her forever smile.

Both hands, now, tremble
with his shoulders' quake
and wipe away tsunami tears
that betray his acceptance.