He Sees Her Break Her Arm

Again I see you trip, again your fall
freezes into a still –
there must have been a sound –
I can’t recall.

Spun from the wall,
there you are lying on the ground

“My arm is broken”
that is what you cry,
I know the words, but I
can’t bring your voice alive

Somebody holds your hand
the pavement’s hard
the ambulance has thirty miles to ride
your face is white with pain.

And now, though I retain
these fragments, which would make a moving picture
I could assemble, if I wanted to,
yet all these memories are stills –

it’s only later that I’m moved by you.

 

 

Together in the Shower

The shower turns me on, and yes
I never felt a hand cupping my breast
or felt a nipple tugged by what I held.
What do I know then? only this
that growing-up gives way to growing-down.

An intimacy we had not expected
binds us together in the cubicle.
What I’d have given, thirty years ago,
to slide myself against you, flesh to flesh!
now it’s because you need to wash you hair
and I must be your naked canephore

Dressing again, you say “I can’t quite reach,”
a wounded arm folded like card behind
“Can you do up my bra?” Hold hard,
The trick was meant to be
(when I was young) a sly
flick of the fingers on a silken back
no fuss, and cornucopia unleashed

But on this day I hold your bra-straps taut,
and slip the hook firmly into its eye
in memory of what I could not reach
and never may.

 

 

Little Priapic Ode

Stop these nocturnal visits, please
at inconvenient hours. It’s some dark corner of the night
when through the gate of horn,
your lewd mosquito trumpets in my ear,
calls action stations,

and soon as I’m awakening you play
your boring mime ‘Haephastos and His Limp’
and fade to grey.
Not funny, and no way
to earn libations.

This isn’t how you were when I was young:
nose stuck in my affairs,
you’d stick around all afternoon:
my flesh would crawl with honey and with bees,
my brain would freeze,

when I was young you had me on my knees.
It’s such a fall,
a mighty tyrant dwindling to a tease.

So summon up your ichor, little god,
and if you please,
either come hot and strong
or not at all

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