Marvels #2 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Woman.
Beds of making love
Do not stir my soul
Nor enthuse my aeons.

I would never touch you.
I would only
Take little photographs
Of your subtle splendor.

I will tell you the
Death of the trees,
The bones that rattle underneath
The earth’s sapid breast
And there, like beasts
We shall dine upon
The cicadas that sing through the
Grass.

I would never touch you,
Nor make love to you.
You are a woman
I would engulf with stares
And little, bursting poetry
And literature.