nomad like the wind
all the things that can be said of love have been said.
we know it to be a song without poetry,
music without instruments.
I stay up late at night studying the old runes on her belly to
search out her mournful history; wondering what they mean
& who put them there.
I crawl into her bed on these straw nights ‘cause I don’t want to
sleep alone. she moans in the grip of whatever dream she’s
having & insinuates her nude body close to me, a wall of flesh to
weld herself to so she won’t disappear in the cool dark. her skin is
August & marshland, arousing my wolfen crave, but I don’t want to
rape her in slumber, so I lay there with my hand on her ass & a
hard, unvagina’d cock.
she knows I’ve had a den of lovers, they left me or I left them. she
reveals her deep secrets to me, her private diary of kink, & I steal
her fresh words & use them in my sordid tales.
when she is lost in romance, she tells me we are parts of the wind,
cast about like fallen feathers; we are tangled in the chords of the
rain, wild & wet & fornicating our storms.
she has the desires of a woman, she constantly reaches for the
golden apples that are forbidden to her. my heart is merely a
desolate pomegranate, but she has already decided in her mind &
heart that I love her.
I give her as much of myself as I can bear to give,
yet it’s a meager dowry –
because a man can never give a woman enough…