"Exile"


The sound of her voice was
his music, mute of syllables
singing of his banishment
from the grace of her words.
  
He gathered sleep from the
shadows of her breasts,
keeping himself to a dark niche
within reach of her perfume.

Keeping her in his sight
he wondered
as he began to pleasure;
when had she known?  

He imagined a
much younger time when
she could extract
milk from the stars,

when she first offered a cup
to his lips, trembling from
kneeling on the cold foyer tiles
of her regal domicile.

Now, there he was
reduced to a vicarious act
though the sight of her
uplifted him-

the upward spiral of
pale smoke from
the snuffed candles
by her adorned bed...

never taking his
quartz eyes off her
and her fertility
was all the adornment he desired;

he, a pebble in the garden
needed no pillows or curtains.
His nostrils filled with her-
was it narcissus, or osmanthus?

All he knew from that moment when
the agony of his passion ignited,
was hearing her voice sing
the song of his exquisite exile.