Friday, March 23, 2012

Boca Baciata

. . . it hangs forever in the obscurity
of something you almost remember:
the rich, silken hair, the glittering eyes,
the tenderness of a skin
as smooth as violets, as soft as
cotton blowing in summer, or (you once said, laughing)
as a kitten’s belly (at which she growled
like a playful lion – later the playfulness vanished),
the sweetness of those hours, the forgotten years,
and all the world of warmth you once held in your arms:

and the talk! the wonderful talk about everything
beneath and above and never seen by the sun,
the rich, deep, bracing stream of the words you shared -
the words! – from that noble mind, that honest heart,
fearless (you learned, not really) soul,
that almost savage spirit:
it was beautiful, it was beautiful, it was beautiful,
it was so unbearably beautiful it almost destroyed you:

for you are one of the unlucky ones,
made out of pain and awkwardness, untough,
who cannot bear the white-hot coals of love
without breaking and melting into a lump
of sexual pain;
faint-hearted, easily discouraged; not one of the fearless;
perpetually disappointed,
so paying the price in a world made only
for the brave;
and so have lived, must live in the half-dark, the safe,
and sleep alone in a room made cold to the touch
and hoard your love for the silent worship of Love.

And yet it hangs there forever,
like the only photograph of a long, tormented life:
the memory (sad happiness, hope’s fading inversion)
of the beautiful lips
(for once briefly silent, neither speaking nor waiting
for their music to rebegin)

that you, once, and only once,



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