Friday, June 09, 2006


Why is it for this man
that perfection's not enough?
What is it draws him back
each morning to the rocks
fronting the sea, turning
his back on the scents
of cedar and thyme
my island births, turning
his back on the grapes
heavy in the sun, turning
his back on me waiting
to be plucked and devoured?
Goddess, I draw him to my bed
each night but cannot hold him
past the dawn. She it is
who pulls him from my bed,
she who withers day by day,
aging like shriveled fruit,
unlike myself or what I
promise him. What is
this restlessness that draws
him only to what fails
with time, that which
I cannot understand
because I cannot change.


Post a Comment

<< Home