Classic Poem

I

Hard, hard to learn —
that love, through bars and against
back strokes, is to make mine
each by his own gesture — the toss
of a cigarette —
giving, laying himself bare,
offering, watching
for its flash of certainty in
the confused onslaught —

— that any one is not one
but twenty — twelve men, two women
a hidden positive and a visible
deception —

Take it, black curls clustered in
the hollow of the neck, unwilling
to be released for less —
laying desperately with impeccable
composure an unnecessary
body clean to the eye —

And emerge curiously changed —
amazement in that loveliness
about the perfect breasts
Venus, her way, close sister to
the martyr — each his own way

One avidly sheathing the flesh —
one denying it. One loosed through
the gone brain of an old man —

Pity has no part in it —

Loosed to take its course, love
is the master — and the variable
certainty in the crosses of
uncertainty —
the flesh, therewith,
a quietness —
and quieted — standing asserted

II

Hard, hard to learn —
that love, against bars and
counter strokes is mine,
each by his own gesture —
the toss of a cigarette —
laying himself bare
offering, watching
for a flash of certainty
in the confused onslaught —
That one is not one
but — twelve, two women,
a hidden positive and
a visible deception —

Take it! black curls clustered
in the hollow of the neck
laying desperately with
impeccable composure
an uncalled for body clean
to the eye —

and emerging
curiously changed —
amazement in that loveliness
about the perfect breasts —
the flesh thereto
a quietness and
quieted, standing asserted