hurry

i like her shadowy eyes.
while looking at me
they sometimes seem to sleep.
her mouth i like.
years ago they commonly
praised lips like those
as petals,
little half-parted,
moist, scarlet-pink buds,
maybe because they speak
so clearly
and musically
of the perfection of youth
and the beauty of
life, Spring and sex,
of the painful brute brevity
of every sweet thing.
lips like those don't give
long kisses.
she does not mind casually
letting them pout
suggestively.
It is an outrage to
modesty and to my senses,
the way she lets them hang open
as if
trying to catch
her breath
or invite me to bed

there is admirable pretense
in the grave, aloof,
exotic
loveliness of her face.
she knows the power of it,
she is attuned to the way men
leap like helpless chipmunks
into the spell of her
soft, sultry, dusky eyes.
i may have kissed something
a trace lovelier,
but nowhere near as wonderful
as her satiny cheek
or her elfish, dainty ears
whose fragile slenderness thrills me,
and that trace-lovelier thing
is hers,
and has a soft, feline name,
and purrs in my mind
right now.
we lay together and
i'm a bit sad for everyone else in the world
because they're not me.
i get the hunted,
zany feeling when
our faces are near.

her laughter is a luxury
and a Pavlovian reward to my animal soul that
i don't want
to do without,
and have never had enough of.
Because i am so doped and delighted
by these peals of good humor
when they sound,
I have a suspicion...
I get so much pleasure
from her giggle and smile,
through the light shining on her silky black head,
in the slightest graze of
any part of her.
It's suspicious.
Amazingly,
all over she is covered
by the milkiest and smoothest,
pearliest skin, and
it makes me exult to be a man
with all ten fingers,
alive, in this
physical world with her,
panting and burrowing
in her fine musky spots.
whole worthy volumes
should be written about
her glorious ass
and Nefertiti tummy,
and I'll get around to them.
the worst scent she could ever produce
i would huff shamelessly
for days


she has a curved old-world nose
that demands
lifelong devotion.
it breathes character,
the Authentic, and
contract love sanctioned by the state.

My arc-nosed
vegetarian jewish socialist,
with your haunting taste
and smell and lines and curves,
I love you
and all your slinky skinny-panted
fey revolutionary ways,
except of course
for the way you can't
seem to love me back
as hard,
and the way you are like
the rest of your wayward
and sickeningly shallow
generation, with its
snarky manners and blasted smart phones,
with
its distractedness
and inability to feel
much for very long.
ugh but baby,
fuck it if I don't
long for you every day
just the same.
you see i have a fierce glad
drunk-souled
madness for being
anywhere near your
body and your heart
and i need to
sing it
while we still have time