Intimacies

How many of you remember this golden oldie? The grim set of his jaw when I ask for more information on this piece's history tells me all I need to know: Love is not a battlefield, it is a minefield, a trap set for heroes by cowards.

Intimacies

eyes, connecting random points with sinuous line
layered against the warm urgency of your voice.
A choice made in an infinite field of flowers
where the criteria for being plucked like the string
of a hand-carved harpsichord is intimate,
and often, unfathomable.

I am your chosen blossom, drink my fragrance
and dance with me a dance of intimacies born
of the nature of our species to find solace,
in the shadow of another soul, from the pain
of life and the stain that rises with the moon to toss us
into dreamworlds without end, without friend.

The curve of your heart fits well the cup
formed by my hand, warmed on your soft breast,
tested for sign of silent encouragement as we spent
our last inhibitions in averted glances that lie
as where our minds have already trespassed, burrowing
beneath silk and cotton threads to find catharsis.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.