"My Crazy Valentine" by Geoffrey Philp
I could tell you stories about morning skies
That held trees wider than the span
Of your arms, but this would be a lie.
For you would prefer tales about hurricanes
That split hulls, rip masts like kites,
dreams trapped in rotting galleys
splintered on the skin of limestone.
I could tell you fables from deep in the earth
Circular as caverns that reach upward to slivers
Of light. But you'd prefer tales dark as the stains
Of pomegranates on my fingers that awaken
The desire of fruit bats from soundless berths,
Red as the hunger that drives them into the night.