Yes! Poets!

My my we are fine,
girlish filagree
sensory wicks waiting
for tastes in autumn evenings.

We ask gently,
we stretch halfway
without exertion to
speed our hearts.

Not merely wanting,
weave baskets
out of romance,
extended strands of longing.

Half open, half vulnerable
nothing fully happens.
We let truth start
We dip and sigh.