​ There in the mirror
The transfixing glimpse
Of the sad white bird.
The dark eyes
The thudding wings:
The visceral birdman
Holds him tight.
 
Eyes fixed
Breathes withheld
Then plunging
Into soft dank flesh:
The pain, the pleasure
The willful surrender
As animal tastes animal.
 
My prince!
My swan!
The explosion of lust
The exhumation of dreams
The enervation of desire:
Transfixed
Assuming contact with the distant stars.
 
Ever distant
Ever yearning
The lustrous arc
Of those white fleshed wings
Enfolds him
In their mistral pose:
Apotheosis!
 
Bittersweet trumpets
Sound their knell.
The bird of death
Lifts his soul on high:
Harps surround his padded cell
As the long ache
Of love transpires.
 
Asleep at last
In the downy nape
Of that beauteous neck.
 


Gar Jones – June 2010
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