Boy Poet

A boy I knew who slipped through nets, much stronger
than his finest fishermen's thread, 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,
fountain-pen-faded ink-loops alive on tattered sheets.
When he wrote, his English wept like a woman
in black by the side of a grave - or danced 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 bottle edge glass of 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, with no hunting gun,
only a fawn affectionate who could just see one.
There was no cherry-pink upon the casement ledge.
One blade and one phial; so quickly, we were dead.