She hung in the arms of the night
as my envy approached.
The night in envy, too.
Always that envy
surrounding
a beautiful woman.
The lights of the streets like lamps
in the corners of arenas:
almost irrelevant.
But she the archetype:
Eve, the first,
Khadija, the Mother of Believers,
and Cleopatra, the final note
in the song of man.
Woman: the parallel,
the earth,
the intuition.
Man:
the perpendicular,
the sun,
the abstract.
Woman:
the spirit hiding in the flesh.
Man:
the spirit hiding in the coveting.
Come, she implied,
in the arms of the night,
and the rest is prehistory.
