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The Silvery Scenes

By Stark Hunter

The silvery scenes,

Above the sensuous Mexican bloom,

Of transcendent yellow, red and orange,

Back there – in the digesting side garden,

Next door, adjacent the obscene lemon flowers,

An old sot sits and peruses 

A darkened shuttered window upstairs.

Blue sky and creeping streaks of contumacious white,

Soar as sky ghosts,

A pitch above the silent stares,

And the forgotten entreaties;

The old sot remembers a long-ago morning in May,

Thirty years hence, years indeed

Filled with wandering gazes and

Imagined gaspings at day’s end.

You, the young girl of Mexican skin,

With eyes of the earth,

18 years old, and at last ready,

Ready for the great cosmic conquest,

You, spying and staring at the man,

Up there on the hill.

Using strong legs and decisive fingers,

I tended my garden, seemingly oblivious,

To your silent inert gazing,

Your self-embraces of squealing frustration,

There in your secret steamy spot,

Behind the darkened unshuttered window upstairs,

Translucent as a dragonfly,

You, thinking forbidden thoughts,

Of wild silvery scenes in the secret shadows,

With the man tending his garden,

And though alone and detached,

You, the young mexican girl next door,

Hiding behind that unshuttered window upstairs,

Knew nothing of his wild designs,

Nothing of his intended episodes,

The silvery scenes in the secret shadows,

Back there- above the sensuous Mexican bloom.

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