I: L'Age D'Or
Where does it begin
this infatuation
with then
all the was
and once
and previously
rendered in
black, white, stone
and sepia tones
you miss
the indescribable
wow of now
the untold and
as yet unfulfilled promise
of possibility
II: Scorpion
I wait
for dark
to gaze
upon your flesh
and in
a series
of sneak attacks
I sting
and when
I am through
with you
I return
to my true love
once more
the dark and sweet
embrace of solitude
III: Invitation
Join you
and your revolution?
when you have paraffin
and clean sheets
elegant earrings
and articulate hands
secret scents
and songs
and all I have
are words
Ah, that compelling infatuation with Then...
ReplyDeleteRendered in my every reaction to a saved touchstone, or fleeting reminder, or stranger's poem.
Also painted in the scent of Rainbath,
the color of saved pantyhose,
the squeeze of a kept one-piece bathing suit,
and the smudged inks of a left-handed diarist.
Painted there; stained in here.
My amazing Thens flood to magnified life the instant our shared Now is past; each boils down into the sweet, sticky, addictive sauce of a quarter-century's unrequited something.
I dislike poetry.
I adore this.
My monitor's raining now -- thank you?
: L'Age D'Or
Where does it begin
this infatuation
with then
all the was
and once
and previously
rendered in
black, white, stone
and sepia tones
you miss
the indescribable
wow of now
the untold and
as yet unfulfilled promise
of possibility