This is for Erin, who I worked with for all too brief a time.  One of the really nice ones, one of the good people.
I promised myself once that I would write of you,

But that was rash.  How could I get it all…

Your measure, texture, scent, pace, poise, rhythm,

The glory of your hair,

The mystery of your legs.

(Once I saw you in your leathers,

Black leathers, and a single blonde braid,

And I swore I would learn to motorcycle.)

But i will try no sonnet on ruby-red lips,

Or milk-white skin, eyes like a clear sky;

Nor will I write of those other eyes crowding you,

Nor the shaking of heads, nor the counterpoint

Of sighs.  None of these, although

All are true.

So, Erin,

There I was for many,  many years, with an evening coffee,

Or  there, in a bookstore, or there, in a park,

Or on one of my famous rambles,

Struggling to recall your completeness.

There I was, indeed, and that, too,

All that is true.

I am sorry, but I must take refuge in story,

And fantasize like this:

I remember our embraces,

The thrust of your breasts against my shirt,

Your arms around my neck,

Your face between my hands,


Of course,

Because the tale must be believable,

The way you laughed and said

“That’s enough!”

Published in: on August 28, 2012 at 2:55 am  Leave a Comment  
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