Ephemera

It would be foolish to stash it,
unlocked, under a rug or mattress.

I take it out often, inhale the fragrance,
alphabetize it, 
count and double-check it,
like foreign currency.

When my time comes,
I'll listen to Shostakovich,
and bury it beneath the tree
I long to be pressed against and kissed. 

Seeds of passion will sprout roots,
and bloom, uninhibited.

tk/June 2012


R.A.D. with Dmitri looking on...

*Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte