Friday, December 13, 2013


You said you were afraid always, all the time,
and yet you play it like a matador, you make it
plunge this way first and that, and then 
you stand tip-toe -- at the last --
your shimmering edge held high --

Oh, you uncoil as if you had a millions limbs, or none --
glistening black, oh you dear segmented woman

(how you fold into my arms, as if each limb
was made only to nestle in some hollow of my flesh;
and how you flare your supple, beaded wings:
they open like a huge intake of breath.)

Your heart is cased in oiled leather,
and leather frames the love lock on your cheek.
The blue square window lets in winter light --
beetle-shapes of mercury --
to crawl and skip and trace  
the contours of your iliac crest and thigh.

1 comment:

Dick said...

Beautiful, Dale. Sinuous and sensual - a wonderful celebration of bodies together.