A Lament: After the Queen of Sheba Left

Of course, love poetry is vanity--
All vanity, and a chasing after wind,
as if mere exhalation could transcend
the limits of distance's brute inanity.
All my wisdom cannot serve
for even the slightest expression of my love.
What's worse, my mightiest flights of poesy have
no power to conjure the slightest of her curves,
nor can my most exacting incantation
spell an end to our separation.
No spell can hope to raise a djinn so hot,
nor summon any succubus so sweet
as the smallest droplet of her sweat.
All my subtlest lines are paper-flat
before the mystery of her breath
hot on my face, and in her tangled curls
meaning means nothing, words condense to pearls
of perspiration falling on my neck--
Until she's back, I'll dream about
her wet hair, and the air that she breathes out.