PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That Friday night---my roommate thankfully gone home for the

weekend---our room, one twenty North Hall, afforded unlimited

privacy to imagine you, Kaisarion, in the full blossom of

your adolescence:  your hair a nearly waist-length cascade of

soft, ginger-colored curls; limbs, slender; frame, delicate.  Here, safe

from the prejudiced haters and prudes (always ubiquitously

present in every era, I suppose), you stand casually, almost

naked---the almost being a pair of stockings (this garment was

designed by your mother, for your devoted stepfather's delight; but

these are your own, made for you by a merchant of Kos), woven of

gold silk; entirely translucent, except for the soft (oh, so very soft!)

opacities that ensheathe your heels and toes (you smile at the

thought of a boy friend's body, arching, even jerking, to the

sensual pleasure adroitly, even teasingly, delivered by

your toes, thus sheathed, gliding southward from his face, his

moist lips, then pausing there and there, and then . . . finally . . . oh

yes! right there).  And, beyond your presence in this room, I see---

despite the separations imposed by the

time and space that humanity has so often damaged---the

interior of an apartment, second floor of a building on the

Rue Lepsius in Alexandria (the first floor being a functional

brothel).  The room is in shadow, the lamp having gone out.  The

Poet sits in his recliner, a book of ancient inscriptions lying on the

floor where he dropped it, having been startled by this real

vision of you, Kaisarion, your nearly full nakedness nuanced and

accessorized by those stockings which, now that you have

drawn them on to your shapely feet and smooth-shaven legs, have

become a part---and are vivified---by your erotic, homogenous beauty.

Starward

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