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Michael D. Petti
I will melt
nor make a goddess of you
soaked of sun and splendid shores
in gilded glory with cunning care
my dallying fingers carving sizzling waves
of each auric strand of hair.
In waters of heat-emboldened
pride, I will not fall
the sculpted beauty of your frame
awash in wanderings of my eye
the sheen of ancient longings spread
like wax on wings to make me fly.
I will soar below you
not too close, nor lick
the seasoned fruits of dreams
where lay the drenching danger zone
of eagle's sky spread wide and bare
and sweet sadness still not flown.
As the searing joy is felt
then will I retreat
marvel at desire's dizzy height
where many wiser had fallen prey
victim of her hot, insouciant will
I, too, admire; then glide away.
And when the day has set to night
the eye of paler moon
guides an Ego bruised but spared
that sails beyond one golden glee
unlike Icarus, who with slow, shallow will
plunged fast and deep in fatal sea.
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