The Agape

In these or in like words the invitation runs:

Primroses that hide your velvets,

enamelled eggshells, you pale moons

trammelled between the thick leaves and the hills,

blue snow-clefts left in spring,

black violets, shining panes:

if only you knew, soft wives,

what might be waiting home for you.

I have the honey for your pains.

In my tuxedo, my white teeth,

my formidable aftershave, not quite a dandy,

I might be found one night upon your doorstep

touching your bell with the tip of an ivory-headed cane.

Under my arm I carry wrapped in calico

shellacked with gold-dust, a mystical

religion just for you. Step

into my leather cabriolet,

my rosy one, my April midnight, my

hazy September afternoon. You will find

upon the cushion something heavy, cut-glass, square,

swathed in the lightest tissue, containing

several golden drops of the breath of life.

It's all here, the black curls, the lean hand, its scar,

the brown ankle in its silk sock. Why

does your elbow quiver so? Naught shall be lost.

Within the mansions of the harvest moon

where you can see the candles from the river

my people have made ready for you.

My dwarves, my albinos, my apes.

For you only, miracles, lusus naturae.

You shall be served the bread of heaven.

Could it be less, my Psyche, my papillon?

My body I divide, take, eat.

Lastly the thought, to be taken frozen

in its great crystal cup, scented with nutmeg,

lime, powdered sugar, the finest dialectic.

And with it all, the wine of sacred time.