From your heart, a wine that sobers
An overtone of musk and a sweetness,
Almost piteous, that lowers my knees
And my ribs as if they were only strings.
There is a look in your eyes
That suggests diamonds have
Cut away your valuables,
The look of a thief apprising
Treasures he cannot possibly comprehend.
There is a miser in your hands
And he does not touch me tenderly.
His breath is icy, his accouterments bald-faced.
I know that he does not desire me
But still his bare knuckles drag
Over my impatient flesh
As if to silence and indeed he does silence.
The moon has a crude look
Like wadded up bits of paper mache.
Tonight she is uneclipsed and her scars
Are showing like embers in a furnace.
I pray to her as we feast, indulging
On intimacies, wholly inadequate.
I have 2 parties this weekend so I am not sure if I will pull off a poem a day and I may not be available for comment. Please forgive any delays.