A Tropical Waterspout at the Edge of a Lagoon
Somehow romance as whirlwind is true,
Too true, like comas are too much like death.
A little twister is too like a coup
In some small principality whose breath
Is warm and humid, packed with yellows, reds,
And oranges in its sweaty paths. It smells
Of spices and of fevered breasts, of heads
Consumed in kissing, and of deepest wells,
Perfumes of passion at their depths. The swirl
Is urgent in the airs, but it is brief.
The damage that is done is to a curl
Mussed out of place by lips. A lovely leaf
And mate fall down and blow together for
A moment. Hot romance is nothing more.