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L’Hotel Belevedere

by darkmaas 11/04/04

Esperanza
who burns incense
to some god of love
meets me in the lobby.
“Love is in the air,” she says.

I know better.

Down in the basement
I’ve built an alembic
of glass and fire
to distill love from ardor.
In the dark it glows
with amorous intent
and rumbles needy
but all I get
is the crust of lust
and whiffs of desire.

They say the old magick died
with Yeats and Crowley.
All the incantations
lost
to our shiny
post modernity.

So breath deeply
Esperanza,
bare pale flesh
vellum for the poetry of love
in black ink
inscribe
fresh canticles
beneath the navel
profane psalms
swollen
fecund

There’s that whiff again
“Love is in the air,” she says.

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