There are times

There are times when
I’d like to take a poet to bed,
to have my thoughts undressed,
my syntaxes kissed
and my thighs caressed
with the soft, slender, green-fingered tips of verbiage.

There’d be honeyed metaphors all around me,
wild euphemisms strewn at my feet,
vernacular syllables in gorgeous flavours,
freshly plucked French similes, climbing hyperboles
with their exquisite tendrils of phrase and fable,
colloquial shoots and bracts.

If I give you paper and pen,
shall we poem the night together?