Simple Songs Of Love

My problem is, I love ideas
more than people. The concept
of a curve. A smell or taste
to take me back in time.
A song to touch my heart.
A touch that fills my heart
with song. I see the stave
on which my life is written.
Everything is food to feed
the poet; the ever open mouth.
Though I create such verse
as this, I am doubly devoured
by eyes that pin each moment
to the walls of memory; by ears
that sift through babble
and tie mortuary tags
to the toes of titillation.
Oh yes, I touch the cold
of death and shrivel, shrink
from simple songs of love.