© Sauce*Box, Winter 1996/97.
All rights revert to author.
Washington Square, 2 AM, Summer 1971
by Ernest Slyman
Our impulses like beggars have come round and
whisper
In our bones, the rich imagination of a lunatic kind,
Mystical pangs of the body and the three cities of Lust
Pass into view, and who hasn't gotten up to stare
Into the dark at the crystal luminous streets---
Vast, wide as a meadow , the pure innocent grass
Of one's senseless transparent joy
And the alienation of the body comes as quite a shock,
And the intimacy between ourselves and our own bodies
Comes as quite a shock, trembling hands
Have touched us, lifted us like books from the shelves.
This is the man's body, this is the women's body,
This is the imaginary body of the sexes,
The body in which the temperature is always going up
And the sun is always going down
And the stars are coming out,
The flesh strolling along a path through the woods,
The fingers touching the soft tall grass, the lips nimble,
Leaping across a blue brook.
The somber wistful sighs of tenderness
And their mythical discourses like the classical Greek dramas
Play in our ears, escape inside us and bolt the door.
Keeping company with the heart-mind---
And the big, fat a tiny part of us that stretches out,
Leaves ever so slightly one world for the next,
All that holds us together.
* * * * *
Your critique of this work is appreciated.
Please e-mail the author.