06 April 2011


now that anxiety’s too frail
to make a case, the time you
have caressed in play of
gentle thoughts designed
to sublimate desire – well,
patently it failed

sex appeal defends itself
expressed as rigors borne of ice
and steel – they’re real enough
to touch and taste, as feelings
dislocate from cause appeal
their sensuality

your play displaces inchoate ideas
and while you breathe in rapture
freed of angst this swelling sings
with energy not quite concealed
as innocence – you’d have to say
you knew the score

and yet there’s more – a rootless
hand’s arrest in flight defines a
set of rules one might appeal
if grounds were sure; but then
your victory smile reveals
a game of paramour
© 8 January 2011, I. D. Carswell