Leo Yankevich Poems
Apollo’s Archaic Torso
(after the German of Rainer Maria Rilke)
We have no knowledge of his ancient brow
where pippins ripen. Yet his torso gleams,
reflecting the candela, luminous streams
that yet pour from his gaze, his glance’s glow
still radiant, though dimmed. If not, his bare
breast would not blind you in the silent turn
of hip and thighs, a smile not flash and burn
through groins, his genitals not ever glare.
If not, this stone would seem deformed and small,
the light beneath his shoulder’s sudden fall
not seem a preying panther’s shimmering mane, ...
How To Get To Heaven
Pauline sang like an angel in the choir,
her blue eyes looking heavenward, far past
the stained-glass windows. Yet I laid her fast.
My balls and manhood were her body's sire.
Her lips were soft, tumescent, from being pleasured,
her subtle thanks for thrusts both deep and strong.
Her delicate hands said she liked it long.
My smacks on her pale ass cheeks were well measured.