Tryst Poetry by Daniel Hoda-Shook
I burn like a bonfire in the night!
You are sweet lavender soap-scent
heat within heat, dispassionate cool
of smoothskinned sin with a virgin boy.
You paint my mind (what's left of it then)
with angel tattoos and Magdalen lusts
and dead-in-the-morning-with-sleep regrets--
the milked-dry dreams of sightless old wives
with cigarettes, talking of could've been lives.
God had desired you righteous and bland,
childless and weeping-- I am alternatively
without keeping the ways of his easy
business luncheon lays. I am the son
my father begat colddead in the grave of conscience;
I have repentance for nothing of ardor
or succinic mornings like slides
of trips to smokey mountains or sea,
dead to all but ganglion and silk, I light
in luculent fire to your passionate white!