Dragonfly

Dragonfly

Dragonfly

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A weekly poem, read by the author.
Aug. 4 1999 3:00 AM

Dragonfly

He hovers just above the glittering
current, iridescent green in morning
sun. How does he manage to stay there
at the peripheries of his own desire,
keeping that exquisite distance till
he's certain he can have what he
needs and he takes it then with flashing
tongue (your tongue's wet flicker
and prod, how you knew to hold back
till the pleasure was a pain I'd die for
and the taking a perfect kill) the dragonfly
stays poised at the edge to have his fill
and his eyes never close, hour after hour
he hovers at the edge until the light goes.