F-hole

My wife

            with the dimple on her scrollwork

            with the smell of spruce and rosin

            the small of her back that vibrates

            as gently as a sound post

And her little f-hole

My wife

            her tongue a run of eighth notes

            arpeggio eyelashes

            allegretto fingers

her thighs two even half notes

And her little f-hole

           

And from somewhere within her

There beats a hidden metronome

A rhythm that I can’t quite capture

The ocean, my own secret home

My wife

her breasts a bit rubato

her navel a fermata

her cleft is like the moment

            between the up-bow and the down-bow

And her little f-hole

With thanks to Man Ray and André Breton's "L'Union Libre"

Let me be the first

To wish you happy birthday, Johny.
It's just past midnight in the departure lounge. Was hoping to write you a rhyme about all the gifts I wish you had, or I had to give you, or you had to get, but inspiration fails. So I'll settle for taking advantage of living half a day ahead of you to wish you all the best, first.
Love