I could not touch the fire
And not get burned,
Though is was an easy thing
To do or not to do.

In evening’s chill,
The ceaseless drafts.
My joy,
Discarding coat, and scarf,
And hat.
The hint of smoke,
The spark,
The crackle,
Rich
Perfume and violins
To nose, to ears, to eyes, to mouth, to skin
To soothe.

A welcomed sight,
Left undisturbed in her repose.
How easy to misjudge,
The show.
At once appearing
Both Innocent
And mischievously volatile.
This erotic flame,
This sultry glow,
Wrestling in the leaping light,
Demons and angels.

Of life and limb,
Not wishing
To be consumed,
I stop and stand untouched,
Seemingly unmoved…
With outstretched hands,
I offer no explanation,
Nor shall I inadvertently propose
The conditions of my surrender.

Michael S. True
12-14-08 last edit 9-24-09