Repeat these words,
as all women have said,
though none have led, –
that your beauty divides the waves
beneath me and thee,
for me to never place a finger
on the flesh I have craved.
Were you always able
to hold yourself so together,
of parts never missing
nor ever weathered?
Bring a heartbeat close.
Close, for the kiss
upon your fertile breast,
then to the longest legs
a map has ever drawn, –
as you pace upon Earth’s back,
moving this way and that,
never aside
from your chosen track.
I wait, inside a Hell, being seated
near these words, repeated
by those angels dividing Heaven
from those with missing bread.
Modern Romanticism 