Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Poetry Year August 20

Gather globes of red that shimmer in the memory,
beneath which cluster long blond legs, and waves.
They look out with blank broken smiles and call,
cat call, can call, all call and cross check,
for a trace of moisture that might touch their lips and lives,
and so free them for a moment to imagining imagining.

Cluster the vacant leers, that grope and grab for any touch
of time or mind, but wish most of more of all,
to take and force for little livid things
that precious touch of soul soft sincerity,
that held with the heart and mind would bring them satiation.

And so the dance of taking is transfered from this world unto that,
the meaning of the maze the same, though no rats run in it.
With hold, and hold back, tease against take,
Cold contempt the currency, for the ladies of the red light quarter.

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