if i were a hunter
i would want to chase you through the savannah of etiquette
certain that you could not escape
i would want to take your shoulder-blades as my prize
and polish them with the rub of my fingers as i lay
in the darkness surrounded by your nocturnal perfumes
i would want your skin as a trophy to hang on my wall
so that i could bask in the reflected admiration it would fetch
i would want to be filmed with you
lithe limbs writhing about my hips, my shoulders
as if you were a serpent whose life depended on my death
but i am only a poor fool
who knows too well the slipperiness of the seasons
and the fleeting dangers of wilderness
and that the hunter is but an impostor
whose gun throbs where his heart falters
i would not, could not possess you
you are your own potentate
and in that integrity lies your tempting beauty
which would only fade faster than a rose if taken

1990