Cold Front (1988)

All day long I have desired you.
A cold front has arrived, muscular,
driving jagged clouds on a hard sea of air.
Sunlight flashes in the kitchen window
then flips to darkness, like a closing
eye. I cup a mug of coffee in
my hand. It is smooth and round and
hot to the touch.

The kitchen is still. I want you,
as an alcoholic who gives up on
his sobriety and hurries for a drink.
If I touch you, I will not stop.
A tree outside erupts in wind.

Your breast is pressed to my ear,
filling it, I'm sure I can hear your
heart, incessant. . . but you're at work.
I eat an apple in the kitchen, sitting
on a stool by the window. Each bite
is crisp cold sweetness. They say
it's going to chill into the thirties
tonight. The moon will be full.
We've talked on the phone of travelling
to the beach tonight, of walking along
the shore in the stiff wind. We
say we will share a room.

I have lost control of my desire for
you, I am afraid. Part of me has already
made love to you, during a kiss I
mounted you and looked into your eyes
and came, my temples pounding. . .

Over two rooftops I see the tops of
three palm trees bend far, their leaves
flapping furiously, lashed by the tidal
air. I strap on an electric guitar
and crank up the amplifier. I play
wild rock and roll, I sweat and lurch,
my fingers attack the frets, I make
the notes squeal, I pillage.

My room fills with stampeding horses.
They have angry eyes, they have wild
manes that flutter like the devil's cape.
My hand clutches the hard guitar neck.
I'm searching for your thighs.

It grows colder out, and colder still.
The sky turns mercilessly blue. I pack
my guitar away, bury it in the thick
red plush, lock the case and slideäit beneath my bed.
Kneeling, I finally give it to God, it's too much,
I can't wait any longer, I must have
her. . .

A moment of silence, then another.
Could this be grace? I sit at my desk.
Lamplight is warm but austere. My
face in the window hangs there, mute,
no wolf or good timer. A blast of
wind rocks the window. This pen hefts,
fills with ink, it turns its mouth
on virgin paper.

And hungers.