Late Afternoon Muse 1962.
Late afternoon sun.
The pond still: no
ducks or swans or
dragonflies. You lying
on your back beside
me, hands behind
your head. You talk
of your mother, of how
she sees all things
from a narrow perspective,
how your father avoids
her when he comes in
from the farm and fields
for meals. I note, as I turn
my head towards you,
how bright your eyes are;
the stretched pull of your
dress where breasts push;
your brown hair wavy as
sea tides. You talk of our
first kiss, evening late
December, beneath stars
and moon. I wish to kiss
you once more, put lips
to your brow, your cheek
and lips; to undress you
with my eye's fingers,
make love to you in my
mind's scope, some day
for real, I dream, I hope.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem