when the poem doesn’t move like lake water against your skin

won’t dance with you across the kitchen before bed

won’t run away with you to a mountain cabin

won’t call from the tub to read you its own lines until you ache with the listening

hasn’t asked what you want for dinner

or fed you tacos with its fingers

hasn’t texted you this week about starting a revolution

isn’t treacherous underfoot like creek stones

isn’t whispering something unspeakably dirty in your ear with its hot breath

both of you blushing, and giddy, and shameless as pink peonies in bright sun