Words are a poor medium To transform a remembered sight Into something more permanent A cut diamond or a statue by Rodin, for example.

Yet as someone bestowed with limited Gifts, they must suffice in my case. Let others sculpt, paint or compose concertos To celebrate the beauty of perishable flesh and bone.

I can only begin with metaphors, Some of which great poets and writers Have already invented and used before me. This perhaps should discourage any sane man

But I persist for what I have seen is not what Someone else saw, even though our eyes were Trained on the same view. Take her skin – White and delicate, glittering like a wet fish.

Or her lips, smelling of cinnamon, flush with Blood, twin petals of an orchid. Hear her throaty Laughter, poured like wine from a long necked jar. Watch her shadowy navel appear and disappear

Like the moon. Consider the arch formed by her Naked arms raised behind her head, fingers knotting And unknotting thick dark hair – a bridge Over a gurgling creek, inviting the thirsty

To bend and drink the cold water directly With the mouth, like an animal. An animal, which perhaps doesn’t know Anything about these ideas I am writing about:

Beauty and the desire that beauty evokes. But tell me, hasn’t history of the world Extending to the present shown that A man too is another animal?