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At The Poet's Muse's Gathering
He wrote what you might call sheer poetry---
of stockings, pantyhose, and unshod feet:
his great theme (scholars call it a conceit,
and others of them---a metonomy).
And we had posed it in photography
(no, not that kind of . . . not pornography).
Therefore we sent to him a message, sweet
and shy, to ask (well, really, to entreat)
that we and he, at his convenience, meet.
He chose an afternoon, a certain day.
We chose our best nylons and lingerie.
The boys came from the dancing school, next door,
to join us in our celebration. They
had worn no street clothes---only opaque tights
(in black or white or gray, or some pastel).
But, from the waist up, all of them were bare
except where covered by long locks of hair.
The wind outside howled as it rose and fell
bringing a late, inhospitabel weather;
and what a poet might call a rough draft.
but, inside, underneath those soft, warm lights
we danced (singly, doubly, and all together).
No music, no percussion: on that stage's
silence, we danced the beauty on his pages,
and, from the sides, discretely photographed
by quite a talented photographer
whom we recruited some days earlier.
The poet watched us carefuly; we saw
in his devout gaze an exquisite awe
with innocence and knowledge; but no lewd
thought to alter his, or our, common mood.
Starward
[jlc]
