First Love
A fist of red fire, a flower
Opening in the sun. A kind of peace
Taking over at last, and then the quick release.
Lying apart now, each in a seperate bed,
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Being alone is now
But soon it comes-
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One Flesh
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere-it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do it is like a confession
Of having little feeling-or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preperation.
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not in wind. And time itself's a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Who fire from which I came. has now grown cold?
Thinking Of Love
That desire is quite over
Or seems so as I lie
Using the sky as cover
And thinking of deep
Dreams unknown to a lover.
Far from loneliness.
I can stretch and allow
Legs, arms, hands
Their complete freedom:
There is no-one to please.
Not simply the ache
Of a particular need,
But also the general hunger,
As if the flesh were a house
With too many empty
rooms.
Winter Love
Let us have winter loving that the heart
May be in peace and ready to partake
Of the slow pleasure spring would wish to hurry
Or that in summer harshly would awake,
And let us fall apart, O gladly weary,
The white skin shaken like a white snowflake.
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