FAT BOOKS AND BRAHMS

Fat books and Brahms, I love.  The promised both

is less, however, than the smoke-smell of your hands,

small. Untutored.  Name a day I have not loved!

Please.  Be frank. . . we gentlemen, we men, now

admit only to the task of taking off a watch,

tight along a wrist once as fingers, scratching

blood’s faultless flow, white-scarred, weather-bled,

but holy-honest-real. . . as, what?  Wet-bitten, bitter

child breasts, soft, milkless, fat.  Perhaps!

You were such a liebeslieder-book, my sweet, my bitch,

grace-note-flesh-you.  Fancy that. . . and never really

ever safe!  Floating blind, olive gentle-fingered gin—

tart-sweet, soft, adored. . . hummed, and deeply read.

Could that love touch dreams of wishes risking’s a risk!

Would lust’s dreams were worth loving risking’s risk

Could that lust turn dreams of lovings risking’s risk!