"Silken Ladies" (for Wallace Stevens)

                           Silken ladies rest vulnerably beneath satin sheets and shirtsleeves, over delicate afternoon condiments, and daytime sweet marinades. In pondering serenades upon afternoon riversides. A teacup promenade, in moonlight shadows we are seen waltzing the cemeteries. Relinquishing the folly, below grey skies,  vacant factory outlet stores, and milk brown thighs. The silken ladies proceed throughout fainted dooryards. It is crimson and velour, stiletto heels and proclamations. Upon organic hillsides and promising ocean galleries, we practice yoga routines over eggs and Florentine. We  indulge ourselves with presumptuous yogurt spoons in the quaint frail valley,  promiscuous arithmetic at nightfall. But all and all the silken ladies are all right with me.
                        
                           I remain proud and aware of my character defects.
                           Mainly due to the fact that there are so many.
                           I, a carnivorous vulture that preys upon beauty and death.
                           After all death is the mother of beauty- (Wallace Stevens).
                   
                         The silken ladies thrive upon sordid men like me. It is within the dark cave of my chest, springtime angels have wept, mourned and prayed. In dark tenement rooms that reside behind alleys. Through deep solitude and rupturing despair, I crave no other. To all mothers frequenting desolation and disgrace, you grant me anew, among morning cypress and assorted hyacinths. The dampening remote gardens approaching placid evening. Come to me mercifully in the hearth of engagement. The county fire burning for the sake of her thick loins, baring quivering meat of pale enchanting seeder. Grieving dismal centuries of lost acquaintance, it is the ancient binding of mythological booking that held us together. Stale and cardboard, I am an elderly hoarder of newspaper that crumples upon dusty drawers. I am lucid metal in the rusted foyer.
              
                              We are all mystic vestibules of indecency.
                              Riding treacherous coves deep out into the vast perimeter.
                              It is dark blue, it is evanescent green.
                              Scrupulously disheveled.
                              The misfortunes we have seen.
                              Reigned upon by marvelous eyes of silhouetted maidens, are
                              silken ladies
                              and braided baskets
                              circling
                              downward
                              before being swept up into
                              selective heavens
                              of adultery.