circling

ah, cavafy.
i must admit
to not liking you
too much --
all those feelings,
all that feeling
about feeling,
all that broad stroke talk
about Beauty.

beauty you say, and

i hear desire. no.
not desire: appetite. 

oh, cavafy.

such a consuming eye –
roving over all that young flesh;
the architecture of longing,
your Platonic lust,
the dust of loss covers
the furniture, the room
empty, the windows empty,
the cupboards bare.

no wonder this dance

tired you, the image
of an ideal lover looming
in your imagination,
held perfectly still
by memory,
pored over,
your heart
poured out
with nothing
to hold it.