Sylvia Cycle I

Her brown, impenetrable jumble of curls
Tumbled for a second across her red rich smile.
She feeds on my fumbling discourse,
My tentative, determined weaving
Of God, poems, and dreams
Into a net of desire
Too thin, I fear,
To draw her in.

Could she sense before she sat
My pathetic state
As a raw dry flint aching for a match,
Impotent alone?

Sylvia,
When you went away,
The rivers cracked solid
And the gas lanterns here
All froze black.
I drink cold coffee alone,
Futilely blowing on ashes.




11/1/03