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Uncertain Sweet Lips & Nightingales
By Rudolph Lewis
Your face shines
like the red setting
sun, like the
red dust of your court.
Connoisseurs
delight in the mysteries of
ringlets of your
head, the breeze in the laps
of your garment,
in the still hour. I am
ecstatic that no
passers-by settle like
birds on a limb
in the twilight wind of
your lullaby. I
long for the night bed
to seize the tip
of a lock of hair, coy
sweet lips. Oh
my fortune! the joy of
drinking, of
drowning in the sweat of
your rowdy
flesh. My flowing tears are
the joyous red
of your visage, not the blues
of
a train moving down a track of despair.
I blush at our
deeds of wonder, of frenzied
fortunes,
undeserved. My future is nowhere
other than in
your obliging hands. Outside
prudent secrets
are bandied in the parlors
of libertines,
where nothing is new. Lions of
the savannah
become foxes. In love, there’s
no path without some trace of weakness.
posted 18 July 2005 |