Projecting (8.5.05)

They grow of envy, of envying the bodies of young men
Who sleep naked every night, especially those of passion,
Instead of waiting for winter’s cold season to undress them.

They envy the joints of fingers. The men lean against them
Combing locks of young girls’ hair like wind.

They’d like to be wind, playing through, invisible,
But able to break arms and fingers in the passion of a storm
Because they are small god’s and can get away with anything.

Some men created God in their own image: cruel
Yet forgiving in the face of supplication.
They expect them to bend their slim waists in the breeze.
And they do. They ache to move, will even break
When the wind blows –
Make fire of me. They can hope for little more
Than a moment as someone’s passion.

They loath the Spring, opening a dozen mouths of white
Upon each their branch that sing, indiscriminately, to the eyes
Of men: beauty, beauty, beauty.