The Man On The Mirror

When he was a boy,
I used to see him maybe
storming across the alps
on a bucking white steed,
in Italian marble
outside an enlightened lunar bistro,
or shepherding his harem
on some sleepy tropic isle.
But now I see sinful feasts
on that madly sensual mouth,
a hundred monsoons
blotched on his brown skin,
and only guarded hope
in those grey, marble eyes.
There will be no portrait
but perhaps he's won
some poet's nook of the fierce and massive
tapestry of this modern night.