Rachel's Valentine

All love poems call
poetry back (biatch)
to her sweet onions
not in the churches or stage
nor the last mouthful
of self-worship

but in someone else’s eyes
wickedness assembles me
a search party beats it
out of the night the future
forces it to give itself away

my ideals exceed me
by say a country century while I
was passing through your head
reading
your lovely poem.