MANY WATERS
CANNOT QUENCH
Rhapsody in Blue is playing over my head.
East Street love affairs are never this easy;
unsound and unfounded, they are never like
this. I think of Naomi and Ruth. 'Seduce me
Boaz, uncover his feet' - a Hebrew euphemism,
that, for exposing a man's genitals - and then
I think (there, there, that music again, almost
biblical itself, in its scrunching, eastside larch):
The Song of Songs and Solomon, together:
'Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth',
as the lover proclaims, 'I come to my garden. I
eat my honeycomb with my honey. Open to me,
my sister, my love, my dove, my perfect one.'
-
But no - and more; nothing is ever perfect.
Not that scent of her juices nor that pant of
her breast. All the heave and fever makes me -
as well - shudder. (And, anyway, this world
is so filled with ugly people). And fright is
its recompense as I gather, in this corner
of Spring, the snows of the Winter.
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