~a sonnet for saxophone and blues piano~
It's true; you do not lie
here in my arms,
spent, golden sunlight spilt across
my sheets,
like furrows rumpled at the break of May,
or maybe not: you murmur permissions (I wish!)
into my hair, while my lips touch
the salt and silent
hollow of your neck,
your speechless skin to mine
with indrawn sigh,
laid and delaying my
significance.
Do nothing, remain still,
and do not come
as I would take you,
trying not to mean
some thing in which I'm tested, falsified,
symbolically manipulating your
seminal words too skillfully,
accused
in my imagination: you don't lie.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXV