No evening is not a night of song
as soon as the clock’s bow strikes the strings of my heart.
I shall hum the last few lines of our au revoir
before the exact tune escapes my senses
and your face, my sight!
I shall sing from chorus to coda, nocturne to aubade
to bridge the rest between us
never mind if ever I miss a bit of rhyme
as long as the unsung is finally said:
You will my body to sigh, you will my spirit to sing!
But we only have this night of song,
seconds of refrain,
A symphony of tremolos surrounding your ears
a tenor from the deep, lathering your body with sea foam
billowing, bellowing, and blending
ocean arias and sonatas
atmosphere and sound
air and ground.
expect the morning to whisk drops of dew into mist
distilling last night’s high operatic madness
into a very act of selfish endearment,
a crime of passion, in other words
arrest me before dawn
tick, clock, tick!