Harlequin Face to Face  

I thought it was a plum  
depending with the mystery of its gravid stone  
from the tantalus stick  
to whip the yearning up  
but it was not.  
It was the ball, the jester's ball,  
that carnival creature,  
the great trickster  
of manifold gesture.  

Cunning caps;   
dainty slippers.  

A mountebank upon the stage no one suspects.  
A prestidigitator all employ.  
The impresario importuned.  
The deadly lure of that vanquishing smile  
upon the stage  
upon the stage  
which is never still.  

Cruel trickster.  

Sweet lord      (desired!)  
gentle lady    (desired!)  
The ceaseless manifestations  
cruel and bright  
wind round,   

Bitter black sludge of sloth and timidity 
by courage fires into diamond 
furious fires 
of the stubborn 
the alembic of it taking tears 
and making of them 
with a magic more than subtle, more than clever,
the pearls of victory. 
More strong more steady more humble 
beating heart 
which can command 
a stripping of extraneous 
because it is love's survivor. 
Out of the tumult of the pressing heart 
is described the amplitude 
not the orbit 
of desire.
return to pomegraphics