The Finest Destinations

The Finest Destinations Open the picture album now. Clasped in fake gold with plastic ridges, It is stunningly old, and yellowing; An odorous time machine, Filled with ancient heartbeats, Frozen in the unstoppable hour, Like grave stones in the snow. Look at page one, leaning there, The sixteen year old Mexican girl, With the tanned, inward turning legs. She dances with bare feet in the darkness. She slides along the cool floor in the suave shadows. I remember her ripening voice from decades ago, Whispering muted words of tentative devotion, Holding a rosebud in the unreal garden, as Searching fingers found the finest destinations, The incredible perfumed places, Sealed in wax, Scrolled as with papyrus, Our secret intimacies finding ballast, In repeated late night groans, with Heaving spectacular ingestions, Before an insatiable eating fire, Our gaping mouths engorged, With mad tongues of lapping astonishments. Close the picture album now. Haven’t you had enough?