by Julian X  /  poetry  /  2 Jul 2007
You cannot know, dear young thing, the tenor
of my love, only
the tenor of my passion, caress, stroke,
this calm steeped blend
of parental best-yearning and selfish reward-taking,
all distant now,
steeping, letting go
as it takes you.
Yes, angel, you mine, we lovers, in soul, in truth,
know other in perfection though barely at all:
we may never see one another again, yet still
it burns all tranquility, secures us as we are
in the serenity of knowledge:
you, me, united by that bed.
You shall not know
your freshness, your ripeness that launches,
how your skin glitters with potential, bright and warming,
how right it is
should take you,
though you feel the rightness
at the touch,
in the space of our words.
Yes, angel, cloy tightly round me,
ride thoughtless, your cloying rights the world
as sitars play:
rest calm in the life echoing from you to the future,
this string from this perch that I can see but you cannot,
cloy hard to this rock
amidst the battering,
unfathomable sea. Cloy,
take me inside
as your father, and fill
the hole that haunts your brilliant sunny rightness.
Yes, angel, to all your questions, yes.
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