i, Poetry

    he took me to the point
of no return,
tore open my skirt,
ripped the panties
from my bodice
& dragged me
into the river deep
asking through a sensual man's whir ~
 
                                          'how deep is your poetry?' 
 
as spools of sodden moist
violated every center of my sanity
gripping the depth of my insanity,
utopia & euphoria
settled
in the holiest temple of my doom;
& there
did I occur to me
that poetry is in the eye
of the beholder
particularly
when I saw my legs
dangling over his bare shoulders;
but it was
in the harden thrusts
of his verses,
the orgasmic taunt
in his stanzas
had I realized the depth
of my own poetry
didn't matter ~
 
orally
     anally
          vaginally
 
 
 
for I was Poetry
itself