I dug this one up from about eight or so years ago, having written it when I was in my mid-twenties.
It disappoints me less and less the more I chop and rewrite it and tinker,
though it demands more attention for revision than I have at the moment.
I’ve fiddled with it for nearly a week or so at this point;
time to let it go (for now).
I did not like being a man in the summer;
then man was I little — more beast, then, my measure;
was not so by nature, but my eyes would wander
(or hunt, as it were) and then did so with pleasure.
Nonetheless I was ne’er sated by this,
it did not for a moment deliver the bliss
falsely promised by passions that run far amiss,
desire a wholeness and permanence
when roaming in hungry dead somnolence,
outside the sanctuary.
I do not enjoy dissipation, diffusement,
“faded-to-ether” is not my choice state;
spectrality is a high price for amusements
that thinned my desires from the concentrate
they enjoy when their object is single and whole
retracting to self, into tenorous soul;
abandoning vapors so as to afford
a harmonic form,
whence desire’s sword
does not dive like a scalpel to cut out a breast,
lift it from its family and all of the rest
of a life that has roots and a name: I confess,
I have done this more than once.
“I do so love being a man in the summer” —
so said a great man, in a slip of the tongue,
in an instant creating a moment that thundered
against every lesson he gave to his son.
This dissonant blather stormed on through the years,
though eroded by counsels that were better-steered,
to be swallowed by love’s ever-brightening cheer
which dispels with godlike haste
all advice that lacks in grace
lifting eros to a place
–there, objects Upper-Case–
she needn’t scavenge for scraps of punctuation,
as she did
when sighs and stone-nibbling were celebration;
her longing: given face,
desire’s bowstring mended,
distant feats, now attended.