À La Recherche du Temps Perdu
That beauty comes again from time lost, strong
As muscles on the shoulder, thigh, in arm,
And struggling heart. The beauty comes in long
Nights filled with strangled thrust and with love’s harm.
That face appears again with fatal hair
And curls, except this time the head is not
Black Absalom’s. My tree is here to snare
The beauty and to leave it hanging, fraught
With arrowheads. Another time a head
Of man-like worship swims to dreamy view.
This face compels the chest to fill with dread
And tempts all classroom decency askew.
A long-haired head, a close-cropped smiling face,
They both attack with pheromones like mace.