The favorite song swells with secret:
delicious repetition,
endless appetite for self.
Reused melody ad finitum still
fresh as daylilies pleat-permuted
in your perfumed skirt,
your bilateral symmetries
still phrases polyphonic
set against echoes of self,
your exclaimed chords
still climbing a vertical harmony
a zipper unraveling your back,
your curls' treble-clef dance
plays loose with time accelerando
as only favored music can,
eyelids noteheads
main-themed bare lips
set below your forehead.
Hands upon the black keys
of your body, I conjure my best trills
in a perfect tempo,
virtuosity judged
by your inverted mordents,
hoarsely whispered chorus penultimo.
Not to kiss you
is to grow deaf
to the lilt of repeat,
to the quick inhalation
before a note begins
noticed on the hundredth refrain.
Repeat then repeat.
This mysterious will.
This perfect secret.
This perfect unison.
for Ann 19 July 2008