A disembodied voice was in my ear
with layered tones I never did expect
to come from her. Its sound was full, sincere,
with laughter there and always star-bedecked.
To dance upon those suns in playful praise
produced in me a joy I hadn’t known
for many moons of empty mournful days —
at last, my melancholy overthrown.
But while that fluted palette fills my mind
some other, lower, thought assails my smile
(becoming with our tryst now intertwined)
which will not with desire be reconciled:
If she were not now with somebody else
I’d gladly give to her all of myself.
© 2011, Alan Morrison