indeliberate moon

 
what is the moon except a big circle in the sky
it glows merely as a reflection of the sun’s fire
which burns thru the long colorless nights
 
I could record the distance in orbital rotations
or kilometers, but that would not be poetry
 
a woman, thus, is many characters away from these
recherché reveries, but in a poem, in my poem
she is the object of drifting, carnal despondence
 
my nights are long, and she
(who has a name, a name I’ve given her)
comes to be kissed, deeply, as the French ordained
but a kiss is not its own volition
 
she knows by the brood in my eyes
proceeds me to a bed of pallid sheets
upon my overlook, I perceive the borders of her depravity
the arid regions of her nudity; the infringed oasis
 
she opens – not as a budding flower or a book’s pages
but as a woman:  cinema verite’
the arcane factory between her thighs
silently warrants my expedition
 
when we are locked, she makes her female sounds
that are not translatable in the language of men
we sail where the moon cannot sail
where neither travels a poem…
at its meridian, I know I’ve lost something
something I will never own again
 
she’s a temptress indeliberately
I found her in the garden of wanton perdition
and she glows when she reflects my fire…
 
 
(Art: Dora Maar by Leonor Fini)