Tuesday, February 22, 2011

New Yorker

A woman on the back of an American magazine tells me with her gaze,
behind her cheap expensive shades,
that she is bronze and I am metropolitan,
worth looking at from the vantage point of the stiff gray threads
that make up the soft, cold couch
upon which lie her frighteningly long, long legs.

Her sex is barely covered by her leather bag and velvet hands,
her hands with little more to do in life than fondle her own vanity,
touch my eyes and lead me: onto the couch, on fast to nothing,
(that is, the point at which my paycheck ends, another man's begins)
and if, if I am lucky: into her
to be devoured, maybe photographed.

She wears her eyes as well as now her breasts wear both her hands,
almost as artfully as her ego wears her nakedness.
Her fingertip, paused in the apex of her clavicle,
moans me to rest in my pursuit of love by chasing her.

But I have seen her when she bathes her face,
have seen it run the same as I: madly
and far from her tumbling eyes.

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