Not these nymphs, but you,
I would perpetuate.
Not these boys, but you,
boyish man. (Fresh-faced men like you.)
You hit me with your stubborn clanging fists, and I sit
watching you with my round doe eyes, and you stay
standing.
Your scruff burns me, but you keep
sliding on me. The breeze swirls around your ears, the leaves sweep
itself over your feet, the rain are flutes.
I conduct the ruins of what used to be, into the castle
of now,
I take some wild clovers
and some green vines from here and there;
weaving into the wheat, the wheat sewn into the doors;
the thresholds lined with sugar to keep you here,
lined with salt to keep me here.
You,
my fruitful man, gazing at me from your rocks,
(the rocks by the water, which if followed, would get pulled down deeper and deeper, until you've awash unto his shore)
******* me with your stoney eyes;
skyey you are not, limpid you are not,
tangible you are, my innocence you do not wish to keep.
You hold my sugar in a cup,
you drink from the tears of
my callow face.
("Too innocent," you say I am. You say, "I need to violate.")
You string your words on a ribbon of silk, and
your eyes hop from person from book, because they all bore you --
and you lean on your elbow with your chin resting in your palm,
with twiney fingers and veins;
you, my opaque man:
let me get lost in your waves, in your dew, in your fog.
You, my boyish man, my devilish god, I would perpetuate.
Was it a dream I loved?
inspired by The Afternoon of a Faun by Stephane Mallarame