poems

 

 

Spy

I slept with a spy
one boorish night; he swore
he had — ashen with wisdom.
Was he lewd or was he
logical? Did he carry
a code book between his knees,
and was his navel the recording
button for my deliberations on
his rump? He pitched above
with calculated sighs and
reckoned the axis on the grid
where were the arsenals and
the powder kegs. He thrust
his belly in my face
and asked me if that was
Cythera he saw breaking like
a wave of drunken navies on the shore