Over Eight Months, Maybe Ten

Realisation as release; moments locked
together, careful faces pressed by frowns,
showing working - hard -
our plains of understanding changing -

intersecting. The thing of sex is moving, being
drawn to our domain. We
have built it - from its parts, its words,
its thoughts and from its lack of thought.

We can substitute the value X; we
can sexualise middle-aged men, naked jumping
into water; we can dash them open
red on the rocks of our brains,

can take this man still middle-aged, feeling
proudly, his still-young daughter beautiful,
have them enter arm-in-arm half-leering -
how sad - we say - is this okay? We'll
assure each other someday in this
hot and humid country.

Until then we'll dwell on these things, these
body-parts it seems we made,
(emotion is bodily. To rise as romance -
to go down as the rose already decomposed)
and always fearing fecund this creation;
fearing solid triumph, swollen punishment,
or nothing at all.

I Catch The Eye Of A Jogger

I draw an arrow from your eye to mine.
The thing goes thus:

A thought; a language coded by
a tiny infinity of sense reason experience;
a set of unfamiliar vital minor muscles;
a miraculously meaningful form
on a human eyeball; and then
through a thousand solid sheets of air, and then
the eyeballs receipt, the language
probably different maybe same;
and into the pastel-soft snow of thoughts,
inside the hard thing I call myself.

Did we just make love? Did I leave you
with close to what you left to me?