Archive
03/05/11
Smile and Little Finger
Three nights ago, A nondescript midweek-workday evening, We chose to dine out, at a neighborhood restaurant, Share a plate of hummus and toasted pita bread, With an entrée of shrimp cocktails and extra red sauce.
Then, we retreated to my apartment den's leather sofa, To spend the next two and a half snuggled hours Watching James Bond and Vesper Lynd Fall out, then in, then out, again, of ecstatic, tragic love, As only dramatic, cinematic fate could inevitably have it.
Our slow, sweet slide into sensuous sleep Was a perfectly orchestrated climax of passions' actions, In which the essence of you and me Surrendered our spirits' bodies, souls, beings, to each other, In a fleeting honeymoon of our dreams' endless stay in Venice.
Even now, I can hear myself whispering, in your exquisite ear (Which I'm still sculpting, with my poetic tongue tip): "Linda, if all that was left of you Were your smile and your little finger, You'd still be more of a woman than any I've ever known."
03/05/11
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