Surely, I won’t be blamed for thinking so.
I’ve read the classics (in secret),
and I know what end
waits for those (myself included)
convinced they know
how anything will end.
And I know that conquest
isn’t enough; just ask Alexander.
He too wept at the end of his world.
So though I know better,
still I will will myself
etherized by her.
Why? You might rightfully ask.
Let us say, ‘Because of her eyes,’
for surely such eyes have fire
enough to force me to the desired
crisis of desire:
For after having studied the drape of her long red dress,
its cut, its revelations and diversions,
I can read its flirtations
with the floor. And I have studied the tilt of her head,
its most attractive angles
and its probable digressions.
So, inevitably, here we are beside the fireplace,
its glow enhancing the luster
of her skin. But amid the champagne flutes
and cautious whispers about the autumn chill,
the embers succumb to the falling night,
and something in her smile changes–
the dark matter between her barely parted lips
compresses itself into a dense yellow half-light,
and my mind collapses around it like a dying star
because what I see
emerging from tomorrow’s hotel-room sheets
is her perfect hands moving
to sweep a strand of untousled hair
from her well-rested hazel eyes.