Timeless.

FLOATING

Our canoe idles in the idling current

Of the tree and vine and rush enclosed

Backwater of a torpid midwestern stream;

Revolves slowly, and lodges in the glutted

Waterlilies. We are tired of paddling.

All afternoon we have climbed the weak current,

Up dim meanders, through woods and pastures,

Past muddy fords where the strong smell of cattle

Lay thick across the water; singing the songs

Of perfect, habitual motion; ski songs,

Nightherding songs, songs of the capstan walk,

The levee, and the roll of the voyageurs.

Tired of motion, of the rhythms of motion,

Tired of the sweet play of our interwoven strength,

We lie in each other's arms and let the palps

Of waterlily leaf and petal hold back

All motion in the heat thickened, drowsing air.

Sing to me softly, Westron Wynde, Ah the Syghes,

Mon coeur se recommend à vous, Phoebi Claro;

Sing the wandering erotic melodies

Of men and women gone seven hundred years,

Softly, your mouth close to my cheek.

Let our thighs lie entangled on the cushions,

Let your breasts in their thin cover

Hang pendant against my naked arms and throat;

Let your odorous hair fall across our eyes;

Kiss me with those subtle, melodic lips.

As I undress you, your pupils are black, wet,

Immense, and your skin ivory and humid.

Move softly, move hardly at all, part your thighs,

Take me slowly while our gnawing lips

Fumble against the humming blood in our throats.

Move softly, do not move at all, but hold me,

Deep, still, deep within you, while time slides away,

As the river slides beyond this lily bed,

And the thieving moments fuse and disappear

In our mortal, timeless flesh.

Kenneth Rexroth