Domestic wild

As I sit blankly staring at the screen for hours I recall the words of some famous poet or another:

Whatever you write,
musicality is more important than logicality.

Does it sound good? Does it sound right? Does it sound like a call uncouth and wild?

Does it glide like shadows across the marble countertop as the light dims and the day dies?

Does it pour like a confession to desires and griefs, ecstatic, boiling, spilling

like the kettle you left for too long on the stove that time

when we fight our almost scheduled fight
over bills and children and the fair sharing of anything and resentment, of all the whys and hows it has come to this

& out of the blue: the screeches
& you, not running to the kitchen,
leaped into my arms, laughing.
Let’s just make love.

Khôi