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…)