Ashes in Love’s Eyes

I listen to some wailing willows,
lying on love’s bed;
last evening I saw these young boys,
tall, hands in hands, legs cabled.
A red gazelle swifts
and fluents in the green
and I’m on love’s bed, forlorn.
I wandered into a gossamer
a bridge across my face,
and my love might be young
but not naive.
This bed’s cold, the other side faces
the aging lukewarm hearth
and the silken ashes in love’s eyes.
We have had supper,
half empty glasses of wine, made love,
and now I’m lost
like that parting kiss. Lasting but lost.
I sighed that wanderer away from my face
and it lurked, I heard, and visited
the sand sheltered pyramids.
Love’s always like sand dunes —
winding up particles, eroding.
I look in the mirror over the mantelpiece,
the hearth’s dead, and ashes
heterochromed in my eyes.
A hurrying breeze from the sea hits
my face, softcore.
I recognized from the salty eye sting,
and love’s swept off its lost feet,
with the ashes,
mirror,
and the sterile bed sheets.

- Not a translation. Pain, my own this time.
