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   unpublished poetry
a serenade in g major
You are not like anything
except yourself. The autumn you
the winter you the same. Your
cavities and mounds ignore all
similes. Your eyes are not the stars.
                    Not to be compared
                                    to satellites.

One day the latitudes of everything
will change, but not your breasts
or your smiles language. And not
the roots that are your legs that
lead to heaven. The luscious air
on summer evenings tricks me
into thinking I touch August
but I am not in touch with
summer or some season thing.
It's you on me or me on you
or us not anywhere at all
together or two gether. What
does comparison mean anyway
when rose is never asked
                     to vie with lily?

Some things alike, some not.
                             I have thought
that I had caught the smell
                             of honey once
when I was resting deep inside you
but it was only that sweet dominion
that is you, while making love
                            or making bread
or making fun of me when I am
being serious or silly about us.

When your eyes are heavy and
your mouth is as a whisper I detect
the sea but it is only heavy lidded
You and no imitation rolling ocean.

You are not like anything
except perhaps yourself. Even then
      You are never quite like You.

Copyright 1998 by Rod McKuen & Stanyan Music Group. All rights
reserved and no part may be reproduced in any form without written
permission of owners.
home    unpublished  poetry