The poets, who used to think otherwise,
will read this sonnet, scoff and snipe,
call it embarrassing, and roll their eyes
at my mushy, low-brow, sentimental tripe.
Well, the hell with them! What do I care?
when you still “walk in beauty” every night,
the moonlight in your eyes and windswept hair,
the inexplicable “phantom” of my delight;
when you’re the only thing I’m thinking of,
in the city, the bedroom, or on the beach,
where we’ve confabulated this hyper-love
with “two hearts beating each to each,”
whose hearts still jump when the other enters the room,
thump-thump-thump, and, yes, boom-boom-boom.