FOR PABLO NERUDA
she is of canvas, foaming rivers and night birds,
never part of your shade, sunlight and desire.
her body owns a torrid strategy, outflanking me,
outwitting my tireless, unsuccessful manoeuvres.
her body points and moves in my direction,
her mind grapples my resistance and I surrender.
there is no difference between her midnight sky
and noon; she is steel and lubricated immutability.
she is the morning flower of hapless souls,
those at the waterside, in towns, on mountains.
oh, luckless Universe, cease your revolution
for she created the gods who made creation.
she waited in the morning mist, by the cliff head
where I wept, my empty, broken rifle at my side.
she kissed pale rainbow paint into my palette mouth,
transformed my finger into a penetrating brush.
she ravaged my body, my mind, my soul, my ego;
for the goddess lacks existence in certain worlds
and try as I might, brushstrokes faded ere their finish
and she was gone, an empty cup left at my table.
© James Sapsard 2014