If I grow old,
let it be like Kavafis,
shamelessly reliving scenes
consigned to memory's diaries,
covert glances that precede
audacious indiscretions,
the long, sweet shadows
cast as aftermath.
Slighter than an ear of wheat,
winnowed to a grain of light,
my spirit will slip
past the wasted heart
to stalk the lonely street,
yearning for chance
glimpses of such forms
as youthful ardour takes,
unfazed in age by the mistakes
that callow youth once made,
avid once again to hold a gaze
too long for modesty,
remembering
lamp-lingering adieus
to pomegranate lips,
the way the dawn disrobed
for jasmine limbs...
Kavafiana
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106082201559
Свидетельство о публикации №106082201559
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