Foxtrot Poem by John Weber

Eyeballing you as a
          sticky bun; pondering how
to reach out without
          getting stuck.

'Perhaps it’s the flare of the
          Season, or more primal
          reasons, but I find
obsession in the chase, if you
          don’t mind the pursuing.'

Your lashes flutter in
          exasperation, twin Venus
Flytraps stretching before
          consuming,

those pinholes inside lick the
          air around me, scanning
risk and prospect within such
          veiled intent.

'Are your legs prepared for the
          pumping, is your ardor
          thumping to torch my
feverous mortal thrill, or shall
          doubt guide your undoing? '

I load my quiver without
          malice, aware splendor is
never afraid of
          vast effort.