Poring over Pausanias, pants plant
their pile on the Place of the Cure of the Soul.
Study-buddies burning through blunt words
blend together in the mosaic of the earthwork floor.
Two bodies piled on tile, undress and cross the seal—
Andrew, in his Emporio Armani, kitted-out
with the kilt of the army of clout,
his thighs an atlas, and my path a shout
through the valley to the pillar
Pompey laid-out beyond the gate;
my hands, my feet, and my lips quake.
“Babe, it’s getting late—”, buried under
the thunder of “Babe, you’re getting laid”,
penetrates the horizon of our fate.
Rising, Andrew obviates the need for
us to wait. It’s that-something—that-faith-
you’ve-got-to-shake—if you want to believe
you’ve yet to taste of true love, and you wade
in the puddle that becomes a lake. Desire—
drier than the desert, melting wings—flies for
liberty as we liberally take each other’s.
Along the watchtowers, sentinels sound trumpets,
singing showers of sentimentals, as fair as the fires
our fathers were tested in, at whose feet the past
falls and all that they forbade us perspires.