Saturday, 22. September 2007
Tongueless
Leaving, she praised the skill
of his tongue in giving her
song for the nights they met in
a starless arena, as if those notes
were all that traveled in the traffic
between mouth and body under eyes
that roved like helium-lights.
Now it is dark. The stage is empty. Beatrice in her hurry seems to have left a play behind. Time is yet to press it into the strata of myth. Orpheus is yet to begin his singular wailing descent. In this version, I heard it told, he will not return for Beatrice takes two tongues down with her.
My Poems
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bombaybeauty,
September 25, 2007 at 11:15:32 AM EDT
a lovely image this:
Time is yet to press it into the strata of myth.
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