O, king of scented dust, pantalooned
and drowsy in the treasure houses of the sun,
your seductions leave you rumpled.
Sticky, drunken bumbler rolling
your burly fleece in the navel of the rose,
looped on pink attar and pillage
or rapine among the foxgloves – harems
of belled skirts tossed and ravaged.
Like an arrow to the mark, your tumultuous
adoration; grasping what you love and wooing
not with gifts or speeches, but with desire
aflame and rampant on the fields to coax
the sugared wet from swooning blooms or
powder up your pelt with rare perfumes.
Ever fickle, lustful as a youth
visiting each pretty flounce and petal,
stroke hot the honeysuckle curves
cling to the arch of scarlet balm
flit redolent of vapored sighs from bed to bed:
licorice and honey, peppered spice, dewy
gems of lemon or vanilla.
And now, rough lover, fat and sated
thrust your golden girth against the air.
The day is summer-stung and fleeting;
your bright inamorati fold against the night.
No passion stays the dark, but cools,
on that starry breast.
– Elizabeth Yon