Destination

The line is an elipse, moon-colored;
Even my art, then, has been taken from me.

For Art is line, by definition,
Not elipse.  The turning points
Are the crooks of muscled arms
And are not bicycle wheels that fleet
toward one like a saw.

I stream out behind the moon.
I go around and around.
A heaviness in the hips,
A sweet juice, makes me want
To beat him purple with my fists.
I want to button his cuffs.
I want to grime his face,
And then wash him.

The oblique ring once again.
The swing of a comet is wide.
The dip, it is the heaviness of a baby.
The line returns to this,
Compassion and a circle of arms
Around angles that know only finiteness.

And the arms are always empty.