Aubade
(Morning Song)
This room whose
windows own no view
Hosts you padding softly from me
Stretching, tawny skin reluctant
To move from mine and this puzzle,
Pleasure, post.
Languid inches more
like eons.
Distance opening and screaming,
This loss, this leave, this love.
Pooled scent and silken sheeted fluids
Of pleasure, passed.
You ease regnant into
other worlds.
Coming awake in dimness, I
Touch the heavy jade about my neck
Stand bemused beneath the water
Still quite lost in pleasure past.
November 11,
1998
