Yes, forget the feet. . . .

Hail raw satyr,
rose leaping through the windows of our libidos.

Our imaginations run riot through your muscular body,
seep unquietly into your eyes
soaring with the glint of eternity hiding just behind
a splash of feral passions

we ride upon

like some holy horse
to a place
draped in magic
we have forgotten how to summon

with our own wills.

Oh yes, you did burn too hot,
nerves soaked in the elixir of art
as 3 parts scent of sweat,
2 parts make-up under hot lights,
5 parts flesh straining. twisting, leaping
to the most brilliant music
produced by an entire age

as you sheltered yourself
in the arms of masterful lovers
willing to do anything
to have you –
Diaghilev, Romola –

Which one do we envy most?

Does it matter who you slept with,
who you wanted,

who wanted you?

How could it
when a whole world
would search the nightfreeze of Paris
on their knees
in the dead of winter
for an orange

to ease your fever,
bring you release

if only

it would bring you back

permit us to witness
the dance
only you
can do.

c. 2004 TDHawkes