Boy Poet

There was this boy I knew who slipped through nets
much stronger than his finest fishermen's thread,
he jumped through loops woven by my woman's fingers
and found himself, and willed himself to fall somehow
for me. A boy poet - classically beautiful, his French words
in that feminine hand, his fountain-pen-faded ink loops
still alive on tattered sheets. When he wrote, his English
wept like a woman in black by the side of a grave - or
danced a Tango in fire traces, fencing light across the page
and so, I really did not, could not, see him coming straight for me.
"Your cocoon of silk will melt in the warmth of my heart's mouth
and like dust I die to drift the breezy blossoms, to settle
my raw petals on the hard edge shapes of glass on your sill.."
Surely, he had meant to rest on another window ledge.
How poetic a way to analyse my tired tenement walls!
He painted landscapes, drew spider diagrams, just to explain it all
until I found him sat by one of my legs; doe eyed to my fawn.
Two deer and two arrows, though there was no hunting gun,
just a fawn affectionate who could only just see one.
There was no cherry-pink Sakura upon the casement ledge,
just one blade and one phial, so quickly, we were dead.