3 AM Kingfisher Sonata
for V.R.Cann, 'of the Serpent born'
I am, down to a man,
the most wrestled and
creased of seasons'
unceasing ardors.
I am established upon my worn and wagging throne.
I remain open all night. Preponderant sinners, their
mendicant amusements such are these fractured
pearls, are wanton for dark bottoms, sea bed renewals,
though for many here any bed will do;
no work on the morrow.
I suffer the happy travails of indigent whithers,
a later paramour whose eyes do what thighs
no longer can. Young men stray in the redder
door and, thank god, are easily distracted,
thank god, the erotic slights of hand, thank
god, the scented smoke, the velvet-covered
mirrors drooping unnoticed; they depart the
happier minds touched more than diminishing
crescents of flesh.
I remain a magician's
hat, hand and arm deep,
it's pit of cyphers ever
grasping, so desperate
for retrieval.
Still, dimming eyes skim shades, browns,
blacks, skin shine a wonder too long stared.
Love, yet, naps undisturbed at peace in my
admonished gaze; pastoral fold's redolent loam
in-breathes; such sleeping geography, it's spell,
its throat tenderly bared, is too great to disturb
with a hungry touch...
Eyes are wiser now to
allow breaths little swallows
overflying nippled minarets,
sinew and hair;
salt mines below
crystallize sweat
beckoning craven
tongues to aftertaste
rejoinders, sweet...
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poem by Warren Falcon
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