Circe
Amóre; what is that, he wondered,
before, before her, before the raw
Circean glimpsed across the buzzing
dance crazed rhythmic beating pulsing room.
Erudite, perniciously droll his
father was, he could have been, the old
generation, but not him, no sir;
he was master of the universe.
It took a while to traverse the room,
jam-packed with hot, febrile bodies in
karezza writhings, bodies touching;
love, or lust, on their minds and on his.
"May I?" "May you what?" She taunted;
neither spoke; both stared. His head bowed in
obeisance, bright red shoes his focus.
Power shifted, as both knew it would.
Quarry now the huntress, wolf killer
relishing command, his submission.
Slowly, mischievously; a wink; words;
"take me to your room, this moment, now
undress me; like you have already."
Vainglorious once; now, kin to a
witless fool, he stood, helpless; she stared;
x-rayed him with her cold steel-blue eyes;
"you're blushing," she whispered. The words like
zephyrs softly caressing his face …
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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