Magic
She did not ask, though others had, for some
small object of quotidian reuse
which might bear, through my handling, remnants of
some inclination one could influence—
a tie I’d worn, a pen I’d used to write
empassioned words of sudden reverie—
nor did she try to fascinate my gaze
with necklaces or silk, no jewels led
to mesmerized imaginings of light
moving in waves between us, while the smoke
of incense swirled through our evening air,
no perfume swayed intoxicated will
or turned the facets of my countenance,
she did not dance me to confusion or
touch my bare skin with ancient rites designed
to incite lust or visionary thirst
for waters that might sooth our languid flames
there were no divinations of desire,
she only sang an ancient song, and I
listened in rapturous remembrance of
the kindred phrases of a distant time
and dreaming of the scenes her voice outlined
I lost all I had known, but gained those things
I hadn’t thought our world could contain.