That’s Love To Us

Painting by William Etty (1787–1849). oil on canvas. fineartlib gallery

The warm window gapes over the sea.
This grail’s poisoned, don’t sip
from the gazelle’s eyes.
 
A wine bearer
in heat, and my minuscule sigh
against this sea breeze.

There’s only a few things to do 
after falling in love,
and that spume borne Venus is sterile.

I gaze past a pair of ladies, clasped,
roaming hands under their clothes
and catch a quantum of sun
in my transparent coffee chalice.

You detected the arousing sand,
but the sea breezed in
before it could climax.

My soap has charcoal extracts in it,
but the hard water’s frothing no foam.

You’ll name your second son Milan
we will make love tonight.
I’ll smoke. You’ll be at the window,
the post coital glow
fading 
out from your cheeks
into the oblivion outside.

The wafting sea flirts with your curls,
and swipes away my smoke clouds
in rage.

That’s how love’s to us — 
variant, discriminating, indifferent;
and we to love,
smoke to some sea breeze.

  • what sea that breeze came from—
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