I have  a weakness
for poetry–the kind that hides
in shadows beneath Sewell Bluff–
naked in plain sight,
as colorless
as an Indian Pipe is
when living.

I have a weakness
for women, Venus like in tides,
the ones who strut their stuff
& own the night,
fire in their veins, no less.
They are unforgiving.

It is
no difficult task
to surrender to words.
Lust is that kind of vice
poets pursue,
& love is their easiest
weakness to lose.