I saw her in the weave of time,
a
shimmer in a silver stream,
scoping
out couture and purple Prada
while
wearing the seven veils of Salome,
eyeliner
drawn into fine Egyptian points.
We
had dinner and water made from wine
beneath
the Brooklyn Bridge
before
heading to a lover’s loft
where
the Soho demons howled
until
she released them with a midnight sigh.
The
magician was nowhere to be seen,
just
a woman with her bangles and beads.
We
walked to the Village and past the Tombs
hand
in hand, the femme younger than the script
would
have the generations believe,
a
May-December flip of the hair and heart.
Oh,
she was the pearl of great price,
the
treasure hidden in a field.
Time
passed, and New Hampshire roped us in
as
we settled on a plausible tale to spin
on
scrolls where ink specified iota and jot.
We
made too much love and not enough,
her
red lips, dark hair, blue eyes
never
growing old like a dead sea
with
salt and dying fish that were multiplied.
Her
love was a shimmer in a silver stream,
twisting
and rising and turning
and
always always to die for.
~William Hammett
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment