La Belle Lettres

Thinking tonight on Cavafy's despair,

Neruda's sad lines

wondering what Love's desire is, would be

without poetry, artistry

this twilight lane

without syntax or paint.

Thinking perhaps they are one and the same

each born of the other -

as those moments in

in your arms

moments when a gateway is opened

that place where it takes me

suspended over the chasm

and leaves me

Moments sometimes coming

in tenderness;

lips dusting my face, my brow

caressing my name as

a question, as a

prayer

whispering kisses

making my hips rise

my blood moan

or in moments of courage

eyes not only meeting but holding

my gaze

“...night winds revolving in the sky and singing”

as we, both here and in memories of softness

and daring past

spilling honey-amber moonlight

over the edge

When these moments take me,

my desire reaching

aching

grasping

for that something found,

gone before I can name it,

the breath that catches

my longing spilling

into the universe

I want

I want

I want

The sudden appearance of stars in Matisse's Embrace

yearning made tangible.