What is Poetry? Nuthin’ to Explain

The body calls. The proper music is searched for, the dust blown away. Fond memories dance on air. Sorrow and disappointment are gently pushed aside. Like the night’s chill, the evils of the world are shuttered out, the room made warm, lights lowered, the fireplace lit. The body calls. Rhine glasses for one or two are blessed with amaranthine aged and incantatory.  Smiles and kisses fly. That sweet whoosh is the wind of garments drifting to the floor. Imagination gives. The body remembers: Once-forbidden graspings, daring public displays, acrobatic arcings. Actuality gives. Hands that tremble in palsy tremble in passion. Old skin reddens to regain its primal glow. The body calls. Poetry is invited in. We read the hunger we need.