Exile

 

The sound of the Goddess was his music,
mute of syllables, singing of his  
banishment from the grace of her words.  
   
He gathered sleep from the outline of  
her breasts, keeping himself to a  
dark niche within reach of her perfume.  
   
Keeping her in his sight, he wondered  
as he began to pleasure;  
when had she known?    
   
He imagined a much younger time  
when she could  
extract milk from the stars,  
   
when she first offered a cup to his lips,  
trembling from kneeling on the  
cold foyer tiles of her regal domicile.  
   
Now there he was, reduced to a  
vicarious act while the sight of her  
uplifted him,  
   
never taking his quartz eyes off her,  
and her fertility  
was all the adornment he desired.  
   
He, a pebble in the garden, needed  
no pillow or curtain. His nostrils
filled with essence of Osmanthus.    
   
All he knew from that moment when
the agony of his passion ignited was  
hearing the song of his exquisite exile.