I saw you there, perpetually dreaming,
your arm thrown back, resting on fur
draped rocks, the day’s bright rays
licking your nakedness.  Sweet Selene
left you on display as if she thought
no one would notice you so artfully
arrayed, so ready for any wanton
woman’s caress. Soft cream limbs,
chest raised, throat bare, I wonder
what inhabits you there and if, perhaps,
I could tame my own forest god as easily,
lay him out in the back garden, come to him
at night, stroke his thighs, and keep him
always, my wild James Dean, soft,
young, away from chain saws,
clogged arteries, and the north wind’s raw call.

Published by:
Apparatus Magazine
February 2010

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *