A.S. I

You listened to my wise
gibberish without question,

and nodded adoringly as we
discussed how you fell against

your will into normalcy.
Calmed your spirits. Hushed your tones.

And I suppose that quiet Quiet
broke the reservations you had

with fidelity into learning
the science of sin. With a cool me.

Because in the foggy gloss
of "Casablanca's" chromatic darkness

your eyes became snapshots of
Ilsa's, flashglances subliminal under

twentyfourframespersecond. But
they were there, glazed in the tremble

of our chemistryecstasy, a curious smile
whipping episodically in my periphery.

And then your fingers became spiders
and I delighted in the leggy caress

expressed unexpected. Wanted.
Desired. From Day One.

And your Daddy Long Legs
grew into biting Tarantulas hungry,

seizing my stillness, my wary thighs,
in the midst of its meditation:

Who are you and why me? What is this?
Should I respond? Sit statuesque?

Stand, stand against? But then my
hand snaked into your lap, a jaw opened

to grip you and say "I know. Me too.
But you must be patient."

The drizzly midtown midnight
mist did not deter discussion of

anticipations and bodies to come.