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 outline 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 while the sight of her
uplifted him,

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

He, a pebble in the garden, needed
no pillow or curtain. His nostrils filled
with essence of Osmanthus.

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