Want to steal your lover’s heart steal a poem whose streets are written long and narrow cobblestoning past the shops of artisans whose crafts have shaped love in trinkets for your lover’s wrist or to hang about her heart. I kiss my lover’s eyes and lips and watch her comb her hair, dive into the mirror there. The poem’s rooms hold a thousand lovers and a thousand more and she’s the only one I choose. The cityscape is written large and spells my lover’s name and yours if you will walk the streets where children half-naked eat peaches and old men and women stooped reach out to touch passing lovers for their gold. This poem I would have you steal can be stolen a thousand times and a thousand times again, I know, for the hot nights keep blowing through my window and my lover waits half-dressed and reading words I have put down for her; where is my heart, she whispers and knows it’s somewhere in the words entangled like the lazy limbs of lovers who have been taken by a quiet sleep that slips along those streets where artisans hold out their wares. Want to steal your lover’s heart, steal this poem which has the shape you wish of it, a flower for your lover’s hair?