Ephemeral Tattoo
“Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?”
“I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.” ~ Anatole France, The Red Lily
Male poems go to flame and smoke. They turn
From heat to fumes and shrivel into ash
And luminescence of a moment, burn
Translucently—mirage waverings. Dash
Them off on any medium and most
Of them will evanesce and vanish, brief
As chilling beauty. They are like a ghost
That intermingles into air, a wave the reef
Destroys, or certainties that wither in
A war. Perhaps a poem carved on stone
Would last for centuries if chiselled with sin,
But most are temporary as cologne.
The briefest of all, far briefer than
These, are inked on the heart of your young man.
