The Diplomat

The diplomat has gone away
Leaving the dark stamp of her eyes
Between my breath and blood.

She employs a car to go across town
A meeting with a minister of state
Who dreams of the point where her legs meet her waist
As he sips his tea.

I never knew her well yet there was an invitation
Slipped beneath my door
The last night I was at a party
Lost against the crowds, searching for a ride home.

Perhaps she knows me through some secret source.

Here beauty wears a fan of silence
A pale fragile white Russian artifact with highlights red and black
Her lips, the sparkle of her eyes.

When I think of her words
I think of her breath
Her mouth her lips
As they part and moisten with the sound.

She has gone away, I don't miss her
For a true diplomat she has set me at ease
With a few kind words.

(For Mia B. 1985)