A Profound Sense Of Ardor Poem by Leo Briones

You chose me—
the poet of the world
to sing like a glass of fire.
And every time we lay down,
to remind you of the amber lust of stones.

With acorn eyes, you stare
into the hole of quiet anarchy, then
like an otter's claw clamped on a turtle's egg,
claim, “It is all just time.”

I think it neither tribal nor modern—
to discover the sun shining on the iced tundra
and find the prophet, who has traveled
through time's twisted tunnel—
dried and broken,
lost amid his spirals and moans,

his cracked lips
can barely utter,

“I too have made love
to the inexplicable girl.”