harbinger of folly if we’d chosen
thus to read his crude and clownish antics;
or we might have censored in the service
of a flawless narrative of budding
love, where sky is cloudless blue and flower
hides no slime of worm amongst its petals.
Quick to flee I turned; but you said “How dare he!”
All at once, in your reaction, you I knew
had sensed what I had read, gave comfort
that you would not let the prick be phallic
shadow darkening our sun. Too old, too wise
for clichés, but alert to symbols
spiralling our selves through history, I saw
The Fool who followed me from one man
to the next, ad infinitum it would seem.
Somehow - we’ll call it intuition - you
could see it too; so there we were, unveiled,
the skins of past betrayals present thrust,
to dare our trust in synchronicity.
Lover now, through your eyes then that freshly
saw, I sheltered from this primal scene, and
watched it doomed in weak display to shift
advantage to its would-be victims.
After all the nightmare sweats, the rattling
doors and shattered glass, the rigid, stifling,
blind-eyed sex, it’s only (after all this
drama) flesh, so sad in its exposing.