A PRAYER: TO LESBIA
by gm
Nathaniel G. Moore
I remember now, instances ago
near the fabulous false decorative tree,
as she shredded the buttered toast
in a fit against her soft lips,
and when closed, these lips formed
a temporary pink rose
and her nipples slept well
under incandescent gown,
which by now phantoms
on a floor somewhere,
beneath all my derangement.
The outlaw garment, once removed,
revealed a suggestive corporeal estate
as if she was preparing to feed
in a maternal role pantomiming
a dirty balance of sustenance and eros
now my inadequacy rises
now my duress circulates
and the potion of hope vanishes
the vanity of defeat and predictive flaws
self-propel: I am the designer,
but cannot feel the plan
for all I feel is love.