Strike

It is the hour 

my friend

that I need the match

to be brought flaming 

to my bed of poetry

where I lie tangled in 

the white sheets

waiting for the fuse

to be lit.

Too soon 

tomorrow will overwrite

the sweet hours of dusk

and we will forget 

how we lingered here

in a cloud of musk rose petals

shining pale like the last stars

that continue to glow 

in the trailing edge

of night’s blanket. 

Now is the moment 

that I want inspiration

to release a bolt of fire 

and fill me with words

come into the space of creation 

and give me more kindling

to light up the universe

so I can raize the fields of dawn 

until the carts of my harvest

are groaning under the weight

of all this poetry.