Make love to me Tchaikovsky
Seduce your Brahms, and make love to me Tchaikovsky.
It isn't enough to play the wood or brass alone;
let's sensuate the old bones; give them a tickle.
Lay Bach, unravel, take off in flight along the French Horn
and triangle. Orchestrate those hands, white-gloved
through wind and string, and compose me.
Hereís where the drainage takes
away. Wants to be in Edinburgh
or Sydney, or somewhere else;
dimmed in porcelain.
That rim was forged by split foams,
washed hands, wet faces. But this
coriolus wonít let us leave.
And now Iím stocked up
with old brushes, empty tubes
whispering each stroke half lisped;
conversations of the nights to come
as we wash, and spit.
My Mother's Sclera
My mother's sclera is the same as mine.
Its white reminds:
this is how we see, and how we're seen
through optic pen displays
and canvas views.
And when looking closely,
the doctor and the poet will tell you the same:
Our vessels have shades
of how we're made.
SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #30, MAY 2005. ISSN 1479-425X