deepundergroundpoetry.com
take me not in haste
I have told her she is like the wind, which is always near,
but I cannot hold the wind. in her defiance, she banishes
my theory. ‘I can be held,’ she tells me.
I have the needs of a lonely scribe, & by flickering candle
light, I compose vague expressions of my heart for an
audience of shadows & my own depravity.
Galatea was a sculpture of clay who became flesh by the
urgent desire of Pygmalion & the blessing of Venus. I, in
my craving, paint her in blue script upon pallid canvases.
with lustful eyes, I watch her emerge from her tub of
fragrant water & bath salts, blotting the droplets with her
towel. drop the towel, I tell her. if she can be held, I will hold
her just like that, nude & blushing. & close to me, close,
there is beauty & nothing more.
but this woman is not a flower to be crushed in savage
arms, & she struggles in my embrace. her affections are
beyond sensual; she has enlightened me that she does
not want her passion wasted. my ardor is subdued regretfully,
but she kindles my fire with one word: soon.
my thoughts are untamed, & my dreams follow. these words
that I write are explicit, not corrupted by metaphor;
because art & poetry are metaphors enough for love…
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