ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris

We should leave, you and I,
As dusk reddens the sky,
Like a woman;
We should leave by back streets,
The covert retreats
Of awkward nights in forgettable neon bars
And too-expensive rental cars:
Streets that follow like a compliment
Cautiously and apologetically
Soliciting affection.
Oh, do not ask, "What action?"
Your lips alone, a distraction.

In the room men come and go
Sampling wine and roe.

The white fog that paws the window-panes,
The white smoke that presses its muzzle to the window-panes,
Marked the corners of the evening,
Snuffled through ditches,
Let fall upon its back the darkness,
Slipped by travelers, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a still November night,
Crept onto the patio, and went to sleep.

Indeed there is time
For the white smoke that lopes along the street
Pawing the window-panes;
There is time, there is time
To exchange each wink with a wink;
There is time to spend and save,
And time for all the looks and hours of eyes
That pore and dribble thoughts you hoped to stave;
Time for us and time for we,
And time yet for myriad compulsions,
And for myriad impulsions and revulsions,
Before the serving of a cracker and Brie.

In the room men come and go
Sampling wine and roe.

Indeed there is time
To consider, "Do I stare?" and, "Do I stare?"
Time to backtrack and desert the affair,
With a plait in my hair—
(They will say: "She's a mess!")
My crimson pashmina, black sheath dress,
My too-high heels, and sequin clutch I nervously caress—
(They will say: "She's one accessory less!")
Do I stare
Much too long?
In a glance there is conversation
For helping casual acquaintances along.

For I have met them all already, met them all—
Have met the evenings, morning, afternoons,
I have dallied my life with dessert spoons;
I recall the voices dying with a dying call
Beneath the blankets in a distant room.
So should I bother with perfume?

And I have seen the eyes already, seen them all—
The eyes that watch you turn a phrase,
And when I am turned, given over to sin,
When I am sinning and clawing at the wall,
Is it proper to grin
And swallow the freedom of my days and my ways?
And should I bother with perfume?

And I have touched the arms already, touched them all—
Arms that are muscled and tan and hale
(Inside jacket sleeves, so wonderfully male!)
Is it cologne or a broad shoulder
That makes me so much bolder?
Arms that rest upon a banister, or tip a hat.
And should I then perfume?
And how should I speak?

.....

Shall I comment, I have departed at dusk through forgotten streets
And inspired the smoke that rises from the cigarettes
Of hollow men in boxers, sitting on bed ends?...

I should have been a pair of dusted wings
Beating hopelessly against a net.

.....

And the morning, the afternoon, lies so silently!
Stifled by entwined fingers,
Exhausted...dozing...or it lingers,
Splayed on the rug, next to you and me.
Should I, after coffee and muffins and porridge,
Have the courage to draw a momentary catharsis?
But though I have wept and feasted, slept and preyed,
Though I have considered your head brought in upon a platter,
I am no dancer—and  here's no grey matter;
I have seen the moment of my beauty flicker,
And I have seen the Fates cast die and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the bowls, the butter, the coffee,
Among the china, among some semblance of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have swallowed the matter with a smile,
To have stuffed the universe into my purse
To carry it into an uncertain future,
To say: "I am Eve, come from the tree,
Come back to teach you all, I shall teach you all"—
If one, turning from the pillow to me,
Should say: "That is not what I thought at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the meteor showers and the gates and the  mud trails,
After the letters, after the mugs, after the bedclothes rumpled on the floor—
Only this, or so much more?—
It is useless to know what I mean!
But as if a flashlight threw the thoughts in constellations on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, discarding a sheet or taking a drag,
And glancing over the nightstand, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I thought, at all."

.....

No! I am not a Goddess, nor was meant to be;
Am a maiden, one that will do
To spark a litany, encourage admiration too,
Praise creation; no doubt, better alone,
Supplemental, often of use,
Coy, cautious, and curious;
Full of high praise, but a bit loose;
At times, indeed, almost conspicuous—
Almost, at times, the Crone.

I grow weak...I grow weak...
I shall wear rouge upon my cheek.

Shall I color my roots? Do I stare at the clock?
I shall wear rain boots and a pink frock.
I have heard the sirens singing on the rock.

I do not know the words.

I have seen them gazing seaward at the waves
Preening their feathers and hair raven black
As the melody brings ships back.

We have waded into the depths of the sea
By seabirds mottled with grey and brown
Until Peitho finds us, and leads us down.