Poets as lovers

There is a precipice of blinking images
in a poem not yet arrived.
The pages hiccup
and release a deep brown smell
that is sometimes coffee and sometimes beer.
The body of text getting less and less incorrect
(which is not the same as getting more correct).

The poets reach out their greasy silver antennae
(nails & pens & graphite fingertips)
hoping to slice through their metaphoric interference.