I sing my praise in foreign tongue,
In language that no land can claim,
With archaic words that Time’s forgot,
In an ancient slang.
In perfect meter, and perfect diction,
I praise the properties of heat and friction,
And the hollow of your thigh,
The perfect tension of your breastbone,
The deep resonance of the baritone waves
You press from your throat,
And the other frequencies
That undulate me
When your love sighs.
Oh, keep me singing
In present tense
Til all my garbled praise
Makes sense,
Until my wells run clear
And sweet
And dry.
-jenn long
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