Something like Lust

Slow down: that buzzard

is hanging from the branches.

It's hiding in your room with something

like lust in its eyes.

It wants to touch you.

But you know the dangers, the simple

cotton canopies, the lattice-work

paper on the walls.

You can smell it.

Remember the night you danced

in the apricot dress

until dawn. No,

not dawn: the light still

burning, and no more

music . . . Forget it,

the cut that doesn't show.

The blood that doesn't stain.

It's through with you.

Forget the length of this one's hair

and that one's name.