One narrow world that might be anywhere; but, for you, it's here and it's now, now. Palest full moon in the window, muted blue-grey shadows, smoke coiling within variegated scintillae of light. Just lie there. Don't move. That's good. Nothing like a man who can follow the figures of beauty, fathom the fingers, the splaying of light. Your hands are beautiful, smooth and worn, firm and supple, a hint of moisture glancing off the wet plucked eye suspended in the balance, in the frame, and yes, I'm calling your name, seeking, seeking, speaking from experience, from what I know you crave; so, come, here, now. I know what you need and you know how good it can feel, giving yourself over to the abandoning emptying and to keep breathing, hot, like that, on the back of my neck. Man . . . Did a dame ever have it so good, so easy, a place to worship, a temple in which to slide moist lips and eloquent tongue narrating a wordless world turning upsy-turvy placing these jewels ever so gently between teeth, and time, and breathe, hallelujah, breathe, breathe, breathe. Wild and wondrous before this fragility of need and it's heavenly to kneel, desire flickering defiantly among stilled shiftings of forever, lovely so opened, awake in my mouth. And, you know, it's the rhythm, it's the glide and sway, it's you moving with me and I with you tasting the sweet explosions spectacularly cascading across the moon drifting slowly out of this poem, this frame, this time, air porous with inevitability, menace and caress held at bay, thighs tangling in strands of the futureless future guttering among shafts of light and yes, that's it and that's all.
Judith Fitzgerald recently completed her four-part epic poem, the critically acclaimed Adagios Quartet . She is currently inking Leonard Cohen: Master of Song (Dundurn Press, Fall 2008).
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