Only Pink Satin Sheets Are Ineffable
Only pink satin sheets are ineffable
And not hot pink, either,
And not pale petal pink,
But some other indescribable color like all three,
The first two and itself most of all.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen
Or felt a pink satin sheet.
A roommate of mine once
Had a pair of silk pajamas,
But they were probably cheap silk.
Not satin, anyway.
How many other things aren’t ineffable?
You know a potato’s not ineffable,
Well, it just sits right there and looks at you,
With all those stumpy eyes;
It doesn’t even know how to look at something
Ineffable.
I’m getting a little tired of the word, actually,
But I’m trying to think, thinking’s hard—
A chipmunk’s certainly not ineffable,
Although its little thefts and larcenies
Might be forbidden;
But most people think it’s just cute,
So how can it be, you know, the thing,
Ineffable.
And a gambler isn’t ineffable,
Nope, he (she?) effs himself up
Right there with the best,
So he’s effing invincible he thinks,
But that’s not the same thing,
Even if he wears satin drawers.
No, I just need to get the feel for it
That bedside with the indescribables on it,
So I can slip and slide off
And land in the floor, and say once and for all
That was an ineffable experience,
And I’m so glad that effing jolt
Doesn’t happen every day.
The Earth and Our Dark Love
(A Pantoume)
It is in fall that humans sense most their dark love,
Not even winter’s chill approximates our clutch;
In autumn, twitt’ring, leaves drop down like dying doves
When winter comes, it is but epilogue’s fell touch.
Not even winter’s frozen heart can loose our clutch,
In snow, in frost, in mud-time, then in green’s own path
We’re fools for a sad love; finale’s own fell touch
Does not swell passion like prefigured aftermath.
Pass snow, pass frost, pass mud-time, then comes green’s
own path,
With certain melancholies of its own like fall,
Its jest: possession, passion and its aftermath
For what’s once young, in autumn must bear full recall.
And summer’s swelt’ring way, so fond, its own, like fall’s,
Must yet await fulfillment from the dark, its trove
Of richness waits on autumn’s fruiting, full recall,
It is in fall we rape the year with our dark love.
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