Michael Harlow

After Kavafy

Slim-waisted as the dawn
he glistens with intent,
boyish in the way
he climbs the stair.
No more than that, enough.

They say: darling of the cavalry.
An itch for paradise
honeys all these wasps of talk
that sweep the undersides
of tables, brush his sleeve.

You feel it – pacing
what circles of wish, the room
grows statuesque, way
he rubs his thighs with light,
at night laughs away his dreams

unravelling the dark, touching,
weight of waking known;
no more than that surely, enough.

From Edges (Athens: Lycabettus Press, 1974)

© Michael Harlow
 

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Last updated 20 March, 2005