Imperfections

Now poetry month draws to a close
But was any able glory achieved
Comparable to what April knows
That on her moonlit evenings gets perceived?
Nothing is more sincere than her mist
Or more rousing than her lusty skies
At prompting humans into being kissed
In ways poets learn to rhapsodize...
Because, though science gets to wear the crown
Of what is, and is not established fact
Poetry claims the lingering renown
Of better sketching the sexual act
Since Cupid's inherent aptitude
Quibbles a cosmic verisimilitude!