The time you showed me
your poem in the library
- eyes gleaming like the skin of mackerel,
hands clammy clasping shirt in an ingress of waiting -
I thought (so naiive am I)
that it was for me!
You soiled me with that chant about her limbs and voice,
and the countless courtesan ways of your goddess
And I thought maybe this poem was the abacus and
I had only to mathematize my way to your meaning and
I would find love.
Obvious to You, perhaps, that my surmise was foolish.
That of course
you wouldn't cock your poem at me if the poem was
That if I were your goddess
I'd be in a gold frame and the poem, under a mattress
Yet even at that time,
even in my triste, I wanted only to soothe
tell you how super I thought you were,
tell you that your poems were divine precision
and that they were sexy.
See, I'm your archetypical mongrel sheep
trying to butt my way into your favour, your forever.