more than flesh

Rome was an illusion, this time.
bleached walls and the smell of cinnamon
carried on my sleeve, leaving me a mirage
dissipating in the cooling light of evening.

I am reconciled to this, a virtue of my age,
a virtue of one who never counts love given
as a waste of a perfectly good present,
for the value is in the one who gives it freely.

the cold catalepsies do not return.
I have passed the third marker on my way
beyond the Pillars of Hercules and out and away.
the grey stain as a scar worn as a badge of honor.

to sail for the horizons, hands rough on the ropes
with which I steer these sails of patchwork dreams,
unseasoned no more, but aged and worn,
tempered by the sun and the breath of Aphrodite.

I smell the fragrance of freedom, a lie unwound,
but a moment's intoxication to be bartered
for a soft hand and a smile that touches
more than wind, more than lips, more than flesh.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.