The Unexpressive Blur

She told me, “Love, that poem is sublime,”
But all she really meant was something cute,
Like: I was underneath a citrus fruit,
A green look on my face — just like last time.
Removing all doubt, she called me subprime —
No play on words, just me in disrepute.
She said, “You’re not astute, though you’re hirsute;
Stay mute while I think up another rhyme.”

“You should be writing sonnets,” I told her,
“Since poetry is clearly in your blood.”
“That nonsense, that infernal verbal flood,
Is yours, all yours, the unexpressive blur
Of teeth and tongue, wings of the tanager,”
She chuckled. “Maybe cows chewing the cud.”