Coming to Grips with White Knuckles

Excerpt

COLETTE

The waitress mainlines
the cup under the saucer
balancing it on the
waistband of her arm
much as a junkie
might tie a tourniquet.

Wiping the glass edge
of the table
clear of croissant crumbs
& watching the barely dry
reflection of her own
image going thru the emotions.
the California chic
pothouse & gardenia
bloom effect of
her work is enough
to leave a dirty smear.

And a little farther
the Fu Manchu mustache
curved in mock epic proportions
of a scimitar un-sheaved for action,
perhaps the executioner's progress
his victims entombed to their skulls
in rolls of quivering earth--
the parting of the ways
coming as your coin drops
to the rasp of his
tin cup chuckle.

TORONTO

Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse with Diamond Eyes.
A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persian
lions carved in wood.
Salads Nicoise.
Dinners at Pré Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent.
A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest.
I drank a cocktail with the girl of the white polo coat.
Or as the cynic said, my pipe is the tent, the tobacco
the days of my life.

I imagine stars at the dragon's tail,
eyelids ringing with butter.

I want to brush palms as
lightly as two sparks.
take the wand of your waist
in two plush hands
with the pitiless gesture
of a sparrow

We part the leaves in breath,
arouse trees in envy.
I sense colours more vivid
than your tongue
after wine,
explosions to cap the wind.

To enter you in argument--
a bough creeking in underbrush,
svelte panthers hiding.

And afterwards, sheets are open galleys,
oarsmen ploughing breakers
across both sea and night.

POETS ARE MAGIC BEINGS

She sits within the Magic Lantern
--that facsimile for pleasure,
decor of wineskins where
at $2.50 a garment
extravagance comes extra;
skin like rosy flames
the whisk of smoke
at hearthside
sunlight about her face.

Cherubs arise from those lips
and battle lines are drawn
about the sweet curvature of her breasts.
A tight cashmere sweater rides
comfortably two of the finest King's
deer headstrong thru Sherwood Forest.

And, Merry Man,
firmly planted in Lincoln Green,
the plodding turf growing at odds within my soul--
give this brief to the Sheriff at Buckingham;
I cool my heels, the soft doe lies prostrate at my feet.

She's loveliness,
hair drawn as curtains
signalling the clouds,
eyes that beckon twin doves
to flight, in swift passage, like the arrows.

A child-like fawn
moistened nudging &
joyous breath,
an allowance for leave
as her gentle hand
budges my sibling cupping.

And walking in a field of gardens
--our Jardin des Plantes--
a molecule in depth
flowery pennons
near Picardy wet.

Casha tendrils here pinion the eye,
little Annabel Lee
with the sunshine wet in her parting hand
that all the birds in grace sigh
at Saint Francis breathless.

THE JOLLY TUPPER

Sun on the eiderdown
breaks tiny corners off the bedspread,
declares green plants its bidding
before summoning Fragonard's maiden
off her swing--so richly dressed
in picture from the sunlit wall....