My Wife Is Away To the Mountains

My wife is away to the mountains, visiting her folks. She left the windows guarded With curtains made out of her shadows. Last night the moon peeped in through the dark embroidery, But failed to seduce me as I was secured in the possessive perfume Of my love exuding from the willful drapes. There are times between midnight and dawn, I dream of an open harbor Swallowing waves of salty ships into her inflamed mouths. But in the morning, when the north wind flutters my wife's curtains, I pity the drowned pirates in their defeats on that adulterous night Of stormy lusts. Then I realize they needed a dedicated poet, to calm the storms, Who can sprinkle sacrificial blood of his circumcised words On cruel crevices of wild seas. Neighbours visit with ritualistic inquiry about my solitude And well being, But their keep-watch concerns reveal through Cleverly concealed blushes, Reminding me of wiles of threatened wives in tales told On the moors. Before dark clouds solicit the sleeping owl, Before an aged crow curses me with yellow teeth, I ought to rush up the mountains to bring her back home Before time Shuts away all the days of my life in superseded calendars. My wife is away to the mountains, visiting her folks.