Cupid and Psyche

Listen lady, that was our agreement,

by handshake; a smile: a sexual encounter; It was for an evening

of song; a dance between the covers.

The laws of entropy were not violated. Energy

was preserved to the limits of its equation.

That which was ultimately obtained

was sedative: a satisfaction, a miraculous slumber;

a balance in the numbers. Remember this:

The passion of Spring Autumn receives,

and if its arms are too full

a compilation to appreciate

then that is unfortunate.

I am not so vain,

but that scar still burns,

and that tallow’s touch observes

a pact disdained, as grudged

a motherfather’s gift too late

to take into one’s heart; but

lips that lightly, transcendentally brush,

can cover canvas after canvas with our flesh;

can crisscross this mortal-laquered plate

with puzzled pleasure

in each conforming part; then leave,

with hesitant

and dawdling breath, much still to crave.

Oh, that we could be the transformation

of that art: some classic

buried bronze, whose perfect lines

and lineage, would take more time

than time itself to successfully expunge.

And, though feeling’s full, even these fixed formulations,

these ancient passions

fade and fail, flounder

and fail again to do right justice

to their embodied need. He turns, perfunctory to the last,

in duty-deed, a son betrayed,

an other cheek, and flies away.

( So much for mythological romance…)