or The Old Man and the Seine
Crouched,
white fedora tipped to the Seine,
He greases the knees
of savoir-faire,
with supernova strut
and outstretched hands.
To saturate this slippery
rite, he might have summoned
any number of motions,
aroused with the flick of the wrist,
with the red-linen twist
and turn
of a matador.
But his quiver is elegant and oh so slow.
It rises soporific sun,
groggy under skyline,
scarred, withered,
incandescent
seen again
in minor swirls
of pizzicato.
Then, she awakens;
she remembers the wild that waxes
Mother Moon
can glisten in the blackest night.
and he is erect
and he is composed
more white than gray
yesterday’s lover—
this ghostly chevalier
wields a woman
into cylinders, into pyramids,
jarrets of geometry,
into butterflying legs
into combustible clutches
that never
explode.