191 May. All that may move moves out of the framed, no -- frozen still life In the museum of memory -- away from tarnish. The picture Thaws spilling a landscape. Air swarms, teems -- interlaced, pierced, thickened, Strung, bound, pinned, saturated with brisk scud, rush, flutter, quest, quiver, Moans, warbles, buzz, whistle, odor, urge, fever, while in silence, Roots slide through soil, in secret, slowly, slinking, so that their flowers Could bare flesh for copulation -- with wombs and phalli lustful, Blameless, ejaculating openly, in color, and coupling In crowds, with their dissipated aroma, no -- narcotic. Wrinkled and rough, centennial trees make love to each other -- distant, Dreaming of a touch, and touching themselves, their touch exalted, Languid, persistent -- masturbating with the wind, their sperm tickling, Wandering and lying everywhere. Birds are pairing, singing Lewdly of how they pair, and fondling with their sound not just partners But everyone who can hear -- erotizing every finger, Feather, claw, beak, paw, hair, straw, tendril -- in the art of arousal. Ladybirds are coupling more than a thousand times a day, their Tiny and fragile bodies throbbing in long orgasms, forgetting To eat raw from flowers, fly and exist. While flowers languish For penetration. All -- that may -- remain in erotogenic Zones -- under fur, feathers, scales, bark, fluff, skin -- caressing, stroking, Rubbing each other, licking, staring, in the way of paired flowers, In each otherís eyes which open their petals at May mornings. May is a plenum versed in couples, in a beat of their striking Hips. May wonít allow me in For I failed to rhyme your body -- In the museum, in a frame and with a label, In tarnish...







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IRENE C∆SAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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