3 Am Kingfisher Sonata Poem by Warren Falcon

for V.R.Cann, 'of the Serpent born'


I am, down to a man,
the most wrestled and
creased of seasons'
unceasing ardors.

I am established upon my worn and wagging throne.
I remain open all night. Preponderant sinners, their
mendicant amusements such are these fractured
pearls, are wanton for dark bottoms, sea bed renewals,
though for many here any bed will do;

no work on the morrow.

I suffer the happy travails of indigent whithers,
a later paramour whose eyes do what thighs
no longer can. Young men stray in the redder
door and, thank god, are easily distracted,
thank god, the erotic slights of hand, thank
god, the scented smoke, the velvet-covered
mirrors drooping unnoticed; they depart the
happier minds touched more than diminishing
crescents of flesh.

I remain a magician's
hat, hand and arm deep,
it's pit of cyphers ever
grasping, so desperate
for retrieval.

Still, dimming eyes skim shades, browns,
blacks, skin shine a wonder too long stared.
Love, yet, naps undisturbed at peace in my
admonished gaze; pastoral fold's redolent loam
in-breathes; such sleeping geography, it's spell,
its throat tenderly bared, is too great to disturb
with a hungry touch.

Eyes are wiser now to
allow breaths little swallows,
murmurs overflying
nippled minarets,
sinew and hair;

salt mines below
crystallize sweat
beckoning craven
tongues to aftertaste
rejoinders, sweet...

Life, dear Barcelona, is sweet..

One endures long enough to break through thunder,
a taut belly, a smooth place for lips to land.
One may reach a 'Pure Land' which has no logic,
the tedious seasons of long life endured.
Still, one gathers names of each joven**
prince passed beneath loving,
yes, arduous hands.

Again, upon Kingfisher's wings I blow these kisses,
this music, your patient ear awaiting the purist pearl,
for you were once the bequeathed, escaped girl
without fear of oceans, this one between us which
now must be overflown to reach you.

N. Nightingale, Empress of Contrails

**'young' in the Spanish tongue