Brinkmanship (or ‘On Beginnings’)
A wind-up monkey clashes its cymbals
(sounds like symbols—for what, repetition?
Anthropomorphism?) in anticipation.
Keys jangling in a pocket, silk-lined and
Shallow, waiting to escape their cloth lockup.
Hands held close, waiting for the millisecond of
Pause—after which rapturous applause can emanate freely, endlessly.
I take your photo like there’s no tomorrow, because
(excuse the cliché…)
There really might not be. Inbetween the clicks and snaps
I realize you are Most Beautiful when you almost-laugh;
When your lips lift themselves, cloud-like,
Into slight crescents, upon which
Celestial chimeras can prance
And never tumble off their soft pink confines.
I await, along with the primate-toy, the metal
Keys, the impatient hands, your Cupid’s bow—I
Await, along with them,
The next new thing that comes.