Artemis The last hill on my left was white Even at dusk, and leafless spires Marked my passage, every breath A shroud They kept saying it was all deceit, That kisses could never be innumerable, That desire had only so much steam, That there were other things Yet your wine was on my lips Long after we had fled, And on your lips, I knew, was mine I listened to the evening With its paring down, and then The night And as I traced my steps I stole a glimpse between the trees, My hunted huntress It was only a matter of time ________________________________________________________________________ Emanuel E. García, 2014 |