Two Songs

by
 1.
Sex, as they harshly call it, I fell into this morning at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday clearly didn't turn me to a hot field ready for plowing, and longing for that young man pierced me to the roots bathing every vein, etc.
All day he appears to me touchingly desirable, a prize one could wreck one's peace for.
I'd call it love if love didn't take so many years but lust too is a jewel a sweet flower and what pure happiness to know all our high-toned questions breed in a lively animal.
2.
That "old last act"! And yet sometimes all seems post coitum triste and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off, getting shot to the moon.
Or a moon-race! Split seconds after my opposite number lands I make it-- we lie fainting together at a crater-edge heavy as mercury in our moonsuits till he speaks-- in a different language yet one I've picked up through cultural exchanges.
.
.
we murmur the first moonwords: Spasibo.
Thanks.
O.
K.

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