His Myth of Love

Silent, I watch him:

self-immolating, his words aflame
hidden,
like his hope, too deep
down
            
He runs from the haunting
of his own making,
his own guilt
chasing
him

still

       not from, but toward
            love
                   his long-legged beauty with velvet
                          skin and laughing eyes

And yet...   he can't stop dreaming
     of long hair like white corn silk
            wound round his fingers,
                  or brushing his nose and lips
                        when he nuzzles her skin
     eyes that skim the surface
     impenetrable
     mythical as any saga

her mind's elegant fingers reach underneath
          dig into the man, and the dreamer, and their love.

She floats cloud-like, a marine layer of "I wish...,"  then dissipates.
          The winter sun burns her off, creature of night and early morning,
                         like steam rising from his teacup.

Yet--there--again she appears
on the back of his eyelids
on the inside of his
soul, as hard as
he tries to
protect
him
self

he can't forget her, can't turn away
from that burned-in shadow
left after staring at her sun
the brand that hurts
every single day.