The Whistler’s Walk

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Rocket-launch beauty is not a virtue
When in his deceptive finger tip you are
Balanced like a ball and as the sheen of
All that you held as sacred dissolves in the whistle
Of his smooth, soft mating call.

What are you? You half begin to wonder
If to wonder the balmy unconscious wave
Of the moment gives you leave.
As he holds in the vast vacant eyes your soul
And gathers in his lips where you’d left it off sleeve.

All that deliberating of all that long
With the next snap of fate dividing fingers
Are gone. Cease to breathe, cease to breathe!
Flimsy air to warm those passages need no more.
As he wills, where he wills let warm vapour flow.

Break out no smile as he rises to go.
That man has let you down where nature
Once was strong — that’s all you must know.
Look on him now where imperfection’s sly grin
Amplifies what he yet was when taking you in.



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