poetry, Season with the Huntress

The river is constant

The river is constant
always flowing in a circle
not as the snake which in the end eats itself,
that is death.
No, that of the sun and the bear,
false deaths and resurrections.
the longings of the ways of skin,
to suckle the water and honey of life;
the surge of my body buried into hers,
flexing ambiguous staggering perfection,

Drenched in my own natural waters,
I come of age.
A little late it may seem.
A secret reserve gave it back to me.
A blue bitter song, I learned so long ago,
Unmoved by itself,
helps me recall my unique disclosure,
which pulsed through my veins
as I stood naked before her,
presumptuously barking out words
and sentences with my guttural rasp.
& She, walked around like a holocaust,
no tangible discretion
nor flimsy consistency.
“What are you really saying?” She probes.
Her eyes were unbreakable,
and her voice,
with words cooked low in the heat of her rage,
began to elevate about the room.

No, I have not forgot it, that wet leprous kiss;
then suddenly seeing the fallen face of an angel
peer angrily through the window,
as my hand reached up to unsnap the clip.
Nor can I deny the want to do it again.
I guess, there was a desire for every woman;
I wonder if these things were that well hidden.
Can I look at a woman and not want?
but that is the man,
the spirit wants something different.
How can I satisfy both?
Can it be found in one woman?

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