SONGS to COUNT CHICKENS BY...

I.

I sit down to my favorite foods and find
No savor in them; they were made to share,
To liven conversation with the man,
Who’s somehow come to mean so much to me.
It’s not just these treats—others of their kind
Have also lost their point if you're not there.
I’ve known it since our love affair began:
There’s more than meets the eye in what we see.
It’s not just that old saw: love isn't blind—
And blindess is the key to this affair—
But those who do not love, who really can’t
See truth is not what is, but what might be.
These dainties-turned-to-dust will take the place
Of nectar when we share them face-to-face.


II.

So now we know—it was a bait-and-switch
Campaign that brought me to his bed that night.
Of course by then I knew that was the game—
But couldn’t tell what game was then afoot.
In fact, it is mysterious and rich
How his first move just robbed me of my sight.
A lame excuse, but I am somewhat lame,
And that night stirred me up right to the root.
The strange thing is, his game’s now just a glitch—
A little speed-bump, some quick flash of light.
With eyes wide open, I still find his name
As sweet as ever—and I love his boots.
What policy is best is hard to say:
Not all the charms of night look good by day.


III.

Come tell me how the day’s remains will run—
When do we move to meet between the sheets,
Let skin speak straight to skin, as it does best,
And make me see what brought me to this pass?
I’ll wait till you are ready for such fun,
With all the tasks you’ve set yourself complete;
I’ll wait till I can stroke your hairy chest,
And cup my hands around your tits and ass.
What happens then is something more than fun;
There’s deeper rhythm here than my heart beats,
As selves unsensed are slowly stripped, undressed,
On this new side of my life’s looking-glass.
So many things conspire to give me peace
That I delight to bring you your release.


IV.

The double vision’s more than I can stand
For long: this year’s delights, last year’s distress,
The hopeless longing for a heart to call
My own, and home, and this year’s plain content.
It never could have been foretold or planned,
And how it came about I cannot guess—
But I still see my madness and my fall
As well as how my weekends now are spent.
I hold you in my arms and am unmanned;
There’s no call to which I’d not answer “yes.”
You know by now that I know how to crawl,
And most of all the ways in which I’m bent.
I stand before you naked; what you see
Is only what your call brings out in me.
C