On Sensuality
written by wmpeaster
Like the river to oblivion, Lethe,
aimless and unmindful to
the words I have misplaced
upon my return, careless like an
unmanned hammock by the sea;
perhaps this is not a return
but where I’ve crept all along
like a body that sneezed out
a soul that dreamt of fleeing loudly;
maybe this is where I kiss next
the one with violent hair, gorgeous
babbler of things nonsensically
appropriate, so so so she’ll say
just know why I call you Sisyphus
because you rise and fall like the sun
deserving all six of my kisses, and
yes, in those moments there is
tension, like great muscles flexing
out of apprehension
of something immediate, some
Charybdis or Scylla churning
out an inviting gesture of the eye
a look that could only mean
come and we will meet as lovers
upon the plains of oblivion; and
I hear her in my mind, the
imaginary preaching:
I will count the strands of your
hair which are the days of your
calendar, beautiful boy.