Rundle Street

 

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.