58

You came from the womb,
Crawling in meandering circles
Toward the ankle and leg
That meant much more
Than it means to the frustrated lover you've become.
Now you stroke it, and tell it lies.
You smile, not unlike the infant,
Who gazes on the blessed face
In raptures of the moment.

Here the similarity ends.
Unlike him do not praise
But assess. You do not feel exalted
But search for the switch
That will turn the trick
For the exaltation to commence.
You would be bathed in blood,
Lie happy and spent in a thicket of thorns;

The eyes that swam in yours today
Will sit tomorrow on the streetcar,
And hate, thickened by the hold
Of overpowering hope
Will destroy each man she meets.


© Dan Goorevitch