To The Elbow

Cunning emporium illicit and
crooked sense of self, you sniffing me out
from hidden incubation, a honey hole
habitat, I successfully submerge myself
unconscious daydreamer I often am
to the elbow

you reach into me send me
scampering sobbing rapture in
opus composition a peeping babel
in groans only some holy ghost can
decipher, begging to taste you

search for the concise vocabulary word
to cusp your supple interest
tickle your intuitive anticipation, an
erect frisking of feathered verse

my deadened ear downturned awkward
remains the derelict, that secret space
for whispers, coarse comings and 
goings, of enticing melody melting
the lost years, fantasies your waking world
has yet to entertain.

TA