Guitar

Forgive me, the whiskey on your guitar
came from the sound of owls whistling in the firs
and moon pouring through the pane and the pain,
and I began to love, I began to love just about everything
about you and our children in deep summer sleep
weary of spring swings and make-believe,
I began to love you running wet and freshly bathed
giggling in your towels, I began to love everything,
eyes swollen with burgeoning images,
and I could no longer manage the sheaf
of music, the chords heavy, large, and your guitar
in the moonlight was like a dancer so I bowed,
your guitar was shaped round and voluptuous
like your shape, so I bowed, gladly gripping
the waxy hips and waist, brushing the neck,
and so I bowed, and knowing the results
were neither intended nor unfortunate,
would again.