Two Songs

 1.

Sex, as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour
of traffic and wet newspapers.

I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn't
turn me to a hot field
ready for plowing, 
and longing for that young man
pierced me to the roots
bathing every vein, etc.

All day he appears to me
touchingly desirable,
a prize one could wreck one's peace for.

I'd call it love if love
didn't take so many years
but lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.


2.

That "old last act"!
And yet sometimes
all seems post coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.

Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.

Or a moon-race!
Split seconds after
my opposite number lands
I make it--
we lie fainting together
at a crater-edge
heavy as mercury in our moonsuits
till he speaks--
in a different language
yet one I've picked up 
through cultural exchanges.
.
.

we murmur the first moonwords:
Spasibo.
 Thanks.
 O.
K.

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