Poem

To My Muse Early in the Morning

1

the touch of
your fingers on
my balls!

the
drunkard’s wine
the killer’s
bullet
not even
they compare
nor give as much pleasure
nor measure up

the touch of
your fingers on
my balls is
an opiate
my love!

it is an
ecstasy finer
than the sheerest dream
finer than reams
of exquisite prose!

my lovely
lovely muse
I have it in for you
as you do
for me

let us dance
together tonight
on an imaginary
floor
in an
imaginary room
in an imaginary
world
clinging like
insects to
our indomitable lust
us and
and nothing more


2

I knew that day
and the day before
as you walked the
path along
the river

I was yours
under a sweat-soaked
sun
to do with
to hurt
to laugh
to weep

what’s more
you leaned against
the riverwall
and beckoned me
like a whore

on your lips
the words formed
like molded sweets—
come dumb poet
you pathetic man
into my arms
you
need me

how could I resist
such a clear song?
what man could
other than the killer
or the dead?


3

on our first date
you did not hesitate
to tell me
I ruined the years
before that day

your honesty!
your bitchiness
impressed me so
I began to ruminate
while denying
your real ambition—
to touch my
balls was
your solution

with some care
and contrition
I allowed you the
opening move
a tremulous hand
under the table
flitted against
my knee and then
and then
the coffee in
the cup before me
swirled up
like an ocean swell
and drained
out in my lap

a small case
of the nerves
I imagine!

but I wanted
you my lovely
lovely muse
how I ached
for you!


4

we have been
together now for years
with your fingers
touching my balls
and you have only
gotten better
how can a man
at sixty be so childlike
I wonder?
so full of
love for his
muse that he feels insane?
so confused
yet clear in one thing—
that his muse’s
touch is all
he can claim?


TS