Studio City

The series of doors opening.

Through the last, a glimpse

of cerulean bedroom-

and beyond,

sliding glass, a pond in afternoon

sun. I glide from one side the doors

to you in the bed. I have flown

all day to visit you here upon the edge.

We repeat that we are not ourselves,

or more ourselves than we could ever

have imagined: inane languid speculation,

new lover We have not asked to be

attuned, exactly. Something more

insistent claims our attention, the way

Nature here be rivalss for the eye:

the glass doors lay open to pool and sky-

magnolia efflorescences bend to hibiscus,

the raucous orange and r bougainvillea,

ridiculous birds-of-paradise efflorescence distracted-

How long can similar extravagance last?

It's true, a far-off stubborn witness walks

within me watches me sit upon the bed,

touch your face. Watches the sun

unlatch, atom by the agency of atom, the outlines

of your shoulders and hair, watches

your hand as it glides above my lips,

my breast. I will not ever grow old, you say.

CAROL MUSKE-DUKES has published six works of poems; her seventh, Sparrow, is forthcoming from Random House in 2003

photograph through Audie England

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar/Apr 2003

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