THE PREDICAMENT

Tonight my mistress filled
my heart again with loathing;
so sour and strange; that i
did wonder if ever i would
love. Why does the moon
make me wish to throb like a fish
in a tub of butter yet want me to
reject her so? Why does her being
fill me with a sense of uncanny
icy quickening whenever i glance
into her anatomy-eye? She is pure
and true and tries to be good. 0
why this loathing? Why does the sight
of her cigarette butts aglow on the
tarnished divan just make me yearn
for other forms of perfection? For
a form of love that is beyond the
Ideal, why do i yearn for this so?
Can no woman give me spiritual
perfection? Can no woman fill my
being with something other than
the precarious stumblings of
avalanche snow? Only the rivers of
turtled trout flowing past the night
of windows, seem able to give me the
gems untouchable, that fill my nurtured
days with another more fantastic
kind of longing.