Can insipid lust be confused with love?
Can the memory of your breasts,
like lumps of rising bread dough
moist and warm and alive
and smelling of yeast,
really be described as love?
Thirty years after
I kneaded them with my hands
do I need them with my heart?
As Kane has his Rosebud,
I have my Steppenwolf,
our secret name for the flower
that grows in the most intimate of gardens
little does the audience know what it enters,
when it steps into the Steppenwolf.
Does my empty base desire translate into love?
I watched Rosanne yesterday, just to hear your voice
and the lion woke up and roared
at the memory of you.
Dear dear Laurie.
Is there any way, that the lion could consume the wolf?
A final time.