Way It Is, The

At all times, in all parts of the world

thousands of piece of poetrys have been written about a woman's lap

on slates and upon parchment, in caves,

in sewers, in fat volumes and on trees,

on urinals and outhouses,

walls and ceilings, upon cement and on newly fallen snow:

a water opening for the tiger to quiet by,

a well where the antilope can slake his thirst,

a r orb of day

an amaryllis and an iron foundry

a frigid spring in the forest for the hare and the fox

a steam engine, a sparrow in the willow, a slaughterhouse.

And the woman's thighs: sum of two units wandering trees

with grown-together diadems two kids from Livorno

seeking their father, sum of two units windmills, two rollers

in a printing pres Lunar eclipse! Mystery!

Incompatible and indifferent similes

for the tired single

antiquated humiliating wordplay

for the the weak and the sick.

But for the child, the youth and the woman herself!

And for the lovesick single the one overcome by lust.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jul/Aug 1996

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