Aubade of the Poet and the Candlemaker

The impoverished saint, rising from his bed of love,
walks naked to the shower, sheathed in last night's memories.
Can you start life as a poet? Is it learned? He can at least start the day.
Writing words of love on the fogged bathroom mirror,
finger calligraphy on warm glass. His touch on shoulder,
tracing lines on shin with the poet-calligrapher's loving touch.

To shave or not to shave? Maybe tomorrow.
A day's scruffiness won't kill anything.
Lips feel almost bruised from heavy kissing.
Herons behind those lips taken to himself, taken wing.
Morning rituals. A slight whatever.

The problem is he thinks too much. Turns everything into words,
even before he's finished living it. Thinks of lines while lips are on thighs,
wants to write them down, wants to write them, instead commits them
to memory, while writing ideograms with spit on skin.
At least as sensual as pen, as brush, as tongue.

Last night's candles, some burned down to shapeless puddles,
still everywhere, on every flat surface in the apartment.
Massive clean-up. Some wax on the rug. Dammit.
Shortcut to heating a home: a hundred candles,
and two bodies together.