what headiness, light headedness

the Spanish vintage brings!

we sing away the silence

of the aging night

while cheating true lover with

flame-lit glimpses — lash-shaded looks

of forbidden nature.

in darkened room

but for the glow of conspiring moon

he lies supine in drunken dreams —

a far-fetched land from day —

no harm befalls him

who knows no evils as may transpire

and such as that we share in shadows

watchful for that slightest move

when he should call me to his side.

we share the truth that i

belong by him and

faithful i should stay

yet faithless as the dog with master

still wont am i to stray.

somehow yet, you hold me

not simply to your breast

but with your eyes, so haunting!

and your words whispered

beneath your breath.

no promises have you given me,

no jeweled phrases of ancient poetry,

no! i would not be so drawn

to antiquated banalities of masked love;

rather, i find allure

in your manner that would

cause the demi-gods of romance

to turn in their graves.

yet, in so doing, what dimensions of desire

should be laid bare to barren minds

that can but witness

a scandalous affair

that would best serve

if recorded in immortal lines

of verse or stage

or better still

in godless world of film

delighting the audience with

deliciously wicked scenes

catering to masochistic inclinations

afterwards to run penitent

into the confessional

railing through worn beads and

seedy litanies of salvation and

wearing their knees out

on remonstrant marble steps

weary of their Janus-countenances

knowing they shall conciliate with

their errant doubles once

beyond church-hearing.

he stirs.

we cease all motion that may

give intimations of indiscretion and

as the conspiring moon

blankets its incandescence

we part

facing the morrow within

the solitary confines of self

assuming once more

masks of indifference.