fantasies of a poet

There is a beautiful poet that I love
distantly, more for his manness than
his music: for his big, sleepy eyes (the colour of
acorns or puppy fluff) and
his soft curls (how soft? I wonder).
I imagine finding him one pinkgray morning
chewing a thumbnail over a
notebook. I imagine draping myself
across his shoulders, kissing out his furrowed brow,
his little frown, us forgetting
the words together. Then
I imagine, as I must,
what he will write, as he must,
about it all later.