Untitled

I

Throne of Izmit,
 In love,
Surreptitious one.
  With spring she arrives,
To stay till fall
  A quarter's love
As 'twas
  This winter though
At his door step
  She stands
And so
  The December beside,
Structures of Byzantine
  Looks oblique
To her curves,
  Or so he feels
He lets them
  And leads 'em
To his ochre yard,
  There, under nascent
Turkish night's
  Dull illumination
The orgy begins..

II

Him. Her. The December
  Soon ochre turns white
White as milk. Virgin. White
  Under blankets of
Gossamer flakes
  Each takes turn
Revealing the
  Other from the folds
Of embrace.
  Serendipitously.
Kissing.
  Teasing,
With rose buds
  And lips.
Him Hers, Her, his
  Every streak of
Disheveled hair
  He clears off
Her face
  A kiss he delivers.
Kiss for a kiss, so does she
  And so the December
In between.

III

There’s no dawn.
  Not in this yard at least
Wouldn’t matter, if there so be.
  Whispers and moans linger.
Venus in act.
  Shy orchids bow
Frail petunias bend.
  Prince, he jousts amid pristine
Whites. Virgin red
  December, she smothers
Mahogany creaks
  Pearl drops of sweat
Plays pitter-patter
  On her forehead from his
Summer heat. Descends
  As she cleaves all over.
Blown smithereens
  Inside each other
Still they lay, entwined
  Night is not petulant
To souls in eurhythmy,
  to be kindled by insatiable
December again..