Poem: Love is the Bomb

Put on some Vivaldi,
and if it works,
there will never be silence.

What seems real
may very well be real,

a woman seen
from behind
sponge-bathing
at the sink,

then flying free
and bearing toward you
with that radiant
radioactive look

and grabbing you
like Khrushchev’s shoe
by the hand.

This article appears in June 2014.