Making Loves.

Because their mouths are like poems,

All full of grace

And syllabic symmetry,

I wanted to kiss them all.

They were all so beautiful,

in their bedraggled way.

So clean, unaffected.

I wanted to make more of them,

Make them gods.

And so I did, and in reverence bowed

Down, and away.

The silent supplicator

Before each colossus.

Briefly, each stooped to touch my hand.

I had made them, these men,

These boys, into beasts,

Into monsters of memory.

I fed each one from

My own breast.

They loved me, briefly.

And I loved them.