Abel
My brother Cain the afflicted likes to sit
brushing softly my shoulders by the water
at nights edge, or in a cinema dimlit
where scenes of peace turn to scenes of slaughter.
Sometimes he will tlk to me; his voice
murmurs the commotion in his mind
and begs me to delay my final choice
and I obey, for he is wise an kind.
He shall choose the last long pain for me;
he knows the thing that must be done, my brother;
it is not treachery - our love was free,
it is no will of his or mine, but rather
the timeless tyranny of things ordained
makes life seem death and love refflected hate;
and full my heart, my sacrifice unsustained:
"I wait for you, my brother, at the gate.".
Now and Not Then
Shall the dire day break when life
finds us merely husband and wife
with passion not so much denied
as neatly laundered and put aside
and the old joyous insistence
trimmed to placid coexistence?
Shall we sometime arise from bed
with not a carnal thought in our head
look at each other without surprise
out of wide awake uncandid eyes
touch and know no immediate urge
where all mysteries urge?
Speak for the sake of something to say
and now and then put on a display
of elaborate mimicry of the past to prove
that ritual reigns where once ruled love
and calmly observe those bleak rites
that once made splendour of our nights?
Dear, when we stop being outrageous
and no longer find contageous
the innumerable ecsatcies we find
in rise of hand or leap of mind -
not now or then, love, need we fear thus;
those two sad people will not be us.
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