I get a kick out of these poets
who are always discovering it is enough.
Rain tattooing the windows is enough.
Your warm flesh beaded with damp is enough.
Enough is the stern mesa, the spawning ocean,
This hammer, that sparrow, our sagging porch steps –
enough with enough!
Ladies & gentlemen, a question:
Why this restless stringing and restringing words
if it is enough?
And why is my heart like a short-legged dog
that jumps and jumps
for a piece of meat on the table?