My Form at Fifty Paces
At fifty paces I look a little better,
there the sun shines rather than strikes,
and distance brings me entirely into focus,
rather than the close up of my blemishes.
I can hear you despite the space between us,
and my gestures say enough in return.
You can't, I know, see the lines well enough
to read between them;
you're missing only glosses
scribbled by my days of madness.
If I were within arm's reach,
we might grab each other
mistaking it for embrace.
But with a measure between us
our souls alone are left to touch...which is the ideal better.
Besides, the woman before you ravished my flesh.
I'm content to glance and wish
for the jar of honey on the shelf,
for if I took it down to taste it
I would consume it,
licking edge and rim like a beast.
At least so far away
you'll believe in the promise of what could be
and consider me a man.
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