Rumi graces candlelit evenings
Soft and gentle mystic love
Petrarch forms great swaths of words
To soft to give to waiting doves

I crack the knitted fabric
With crusty crude cold air
Animal lust crudest love
Tearing fabric laying bare

I probably should have held my tongue
Let quiet passion's sway
Inspire the genteel crowd
Toward a hopeful gentle day

Instead I shed the mystic garment
Laying out my withered soul
Upon a coffee table
Searching for a larger goal