54

How many times have I brooded this way
Where ambushers lurk, and the toad,
Who shows the direction down
To the whore who dresses in spring,
Hides his eyes with a veil
And exposes her thighs until eyes lock
And hell is in her gaze.

I am a man, like other men.
I have desire, I enjoy a pretty face,
A sigh
And the silk of skin on skin
Like the wave of water on naked ankles

Yet
I am a line carved in a palm, deeply
And cannot jump the runnel. I am water:
I cannot flow upward.
I can only wait.
For the thaw to outstrip my banks
And ride for a moment, high,
Until I recede as waters must
Into the palm that weighs me.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1996