Photo | Nevit Dilmen

Amour de loin

That distant, fetching look
in her eyes,
that glint of perfect pleasure
deep within,
that hint of some forbidden
secret shared
are wrapped all in the glance she
offers me,
and then I see the phone-bud
in her ear.

*

Love can be
All in a morning
Of innocence
Over coffee
With no going
Beyond

Mondays

The men, all older than they like to think,
Mondays, around the table, shoot the shit,
coffee talk. Stockholders, board of trustees,
wheeler-dealers with bagels and cheese,
quarterbacks, they salvage the whole weekend,
and then, exultant, the stairs they descend
and separate across the parking lot,
climb into Chevrolets and Fords they bought
at least five years ago and make their way
to middle-level office jobs, their day,
like every other day, spent on the phone
calling others, like themselves, all alone
in other offices, to float a deal,
to close, to bullshit, to avoid the real.

Ladies

The carefully coiffed ladies
Sip their lattes
And set strategies
For charities
So showered fresh
So scrubbed
Body and soul
So safely
Distanced
From their beds
They calculate
New miracles
Of loaves and fishes

*

A single Siren
Herself lost
And alone
May change her song
But not her nature

Getting to Know Us

We start with the small talk:
The weather, the heat;
Then move ever upward:
Film, books, politique.
We catch the great updraft:
Philosophy, art;
Then at last we get down
To bare essentials.

From Across the Room: M

In vain she clips up her hair,
and strands keep flying free,
willowy, feathery, fair,
so all fetching is she,
golden beauty, unaware,
grace, gazelle, Salukí.