Smokebeam
---------------

And now I retrive a fine Panetala
out of the dark leather travelling humidor
that he brought along for me to store
the ten that he gave presented me last week.
I like my women to smoke cigars - he had said.
Bellowing blue smoke in the dingy room
now hotter that the sweat has languished
on these sheets,
on the pillow on which I kneaded my knees.
By and by the smoke sleeps,
the ranting, the panting,
the slanting sunbeams that light the smoke blue
on which our souls sparkle and collide,
random movements - a stray length of hair - strikes.
Shadows brood now
as I turn the blinds down.
In this no-light, in beamless delight
we- particles of desire - again
go back and fight,
our own strikes,
our bangs, our random hits.
We proceed, in darkening crevices,
to contrive a future and erase the past.
But the moment, oh the moment
does not last, does not stop,
does not slow.
We hurry, push again and tire.

I could easily flick
the blinds open and invite
the sun to light smokebeams
over our fetal bodies:
the surprise of light
on his flesh
and mine.



mG.
***