Let me tap my feet in syncopated rhythm,
the sounds are not sounds, but only in our minds.
Let me undulate my form for you,
the flesh is not flesh, but in our senses.
Let me soak you in my perfume,
the scent is not scent, but in your memory.
Let me open all I am to you,
the moisture that you feel is mirage in a wasteland.
Is this some other world, some other place?
No, never, nonce, and not.
It is the real world that we all know.
Because each, and everything, we feel and hear and see and smell,
we know them not, except as we sense them,
and then in conjuration later do remember them.
And these veiled reveries, that skip and dance for us before the mind's eyes.
These, and these alone, are all we have.
For when I leave you to sleep upon your bed,
and slide soft silk upon my hips,
and smooth sateen cotton kissed by your lips,
and clip my rich firmament of hair up from soft shoulders,
and turn to walk to that half opened darkened doors.
It is memories, only memories, that you will have of me
of all that is mine, that you took from me
of all that was ours, that we had in this place.
And once remembered, they are no more, nor less, real
than any other time and or imagined face.
And when you are disheartened and alone,
when you are reaching for that other home,
you will command "Speak memory,"
and calling forth spirits, with that magic,
that all humans learn, and animals learn to fear,
from out of distant past of never more,
the words, those old and awful words, come forth
Then, in that silent still caress of reminiscence,
my face and form and voice will come to you,
where by you will enter back into to this and other heres.
I am your Circe, and by this sorcercy will you disclose,
that magic circle woven out of poetry, memory, music,
and transfigured prose.