Come lift the devil door, the devil's oar,
around my sore arm left,
the indent of my appetite
left on my flesh, carve it from
my bones when I am right for dead.
Make me sigh, from memory, from inside
my eyes, from memory in my mind,
of your thighs, crossed, and your joy,
the inverted curve of your nose
and the outward curve of your cheek,
your geometric inventions, the rhythms
of my obsession.
Hold out the weather, hold the waterfront
beneath you, the port city in your view,
its Icarus somewhere to your right,
past even the height of your view,
drowning from your touch.
The muse is gone, and with her touch,
the remnants that inspired much,
without magic just artifice.
around my sore arm left,
the indent of my appetite
left on my flesh, carve it from
my bones when I am right for dead.
Make me sigh, from memory, from inside
my eyes, from memory in my mind,
of your thighs, crossed, and your joy,
the inverted curve of your nose
and the outward curve of your cheek,
your geometric inventions, the rhythms
of my obsession.
Hold out the weather, hold the waterfront
beneath you, the port city in your view,
its Icarus somewhere to your right,
past even the height of your view,
drowning from your touch.
The muse is gone, and with her touch,
the remnants that inspired much,
without magic just artifice.