Honey bee hive via Wikimedia Commons
Youth, imperious
Bring me high-heeled shoes
but with the heels snapped off (as I’m in a hurry)
and furry mittens that I may explore
my animal nature.
For forty is far away and I will never let age
pull down the corners of my mouth.
Bring me flowers and bees.
I have honey to make.
Dog, waiting outside
for Zef
My owner’s generosity has me thinking
I’m something more than a dog. A butterfly?
Tied to a post, I gaze into the gallery.
Prospective customers brush past.
Two Tibetan monks stop in the street,
say hello to me. When they leave
their disciples bow one by one
as if to consult my map to heaven.
Poem
The word is moving
is probably beautiful
ends sexual energy utterly
yet a man whispered ‘hello’
in the supermarket
and this was so thrilling
I forgot to whisper ‘hello’ back
went home and dreamed
not of him – somewhat mesomorphic
with bushy grey-black hair
my real-time match –
but of a winsome youth
nuzzling me
and I dreamed someone else alive
appearing infrequently
in a small untidy windowless room
hidden in my imaginary house.
If I’d never learned to read
none of this would be happening.
