Monday, July 13, 2009

Tattoo Lovers

The private path of friendship softly worn
and lightly trod so as not to leave tracks
nor track leaves inside the messy sworn
monogamy each of them transacts,
now sketches ways to paint the intimate
time lost in not enacting passion’s spark.
Such art might illustrate the yearning heart
without the breach of touch: let ink embark
along that bicep, this hip— now enshrine
majestic boughs of cedar sweeping low
where spread of moss and bodies dream entwined,
a forest bed held warm as breathing slows
and filtered sun unfolds to shades now drawn
where fevered art depicts such want foregone.

Forget Sartre and Thoreau

A life I want frittered away
in details: confusing play
with love; love with affinity;
confusing equanimity
with mutuality displayed

as smiles. Believing right-of-way
of hearts trumps any dossier.
Be-ing without fraternity.
A life I want:

God in your eyes. The Milky Way.
Grave and glorious disarray
of masks unveiled. Divinity
of soul revealed. An open soiree
of one beloved passion play.
A life, I want.