Brim-Full Again

(after Ghalib)

Too long, friend, since friendship slapped my table, too long;
Too long since your face grew flushed with mine, much too long.

My outcaste eyelash brushed together again
This great heap of bits, broken from my heart by wrong.

Again propriety's gloved hand guides my elbow;
I fear I may not throw myself on any grave again.

Tears, again, you know, are my saline solution;
These salt wounds serve a heart as do strings the cello.

Again, fashion dictates your lips be painted red;
My sticky-handed heart is quite the cosmetician.

Again I've lead my mended, china ego forth
For your foot’s shod endorsement on that heirloom’s head.

Crafty desire, once again, pins its sign up crooked;
Taking bids on heart and soul at discounts to their worth.

I feel your letter's warmth again, there in my pocket;
My hand keeps sneaking touches, feeling what you said.

Eyes lust has lit grow seeing and, again, grow blind;
Searching through worn clothes, at any patch of skin, they quit.

Again her sharp eyes find that in me they want to pierce;
Which looks can do . . . and do! Somehow, I scarcely mind.

Though no face nears, fresh longing tastes again fresh lips;
A toast to drunks from Tulipstan, for whom I’ve waited years!

I want to fib again on security phones;
Through keyholes, I want to come to intimate grips.

Then again, my bones ache for such lonely leisure,
That, waking, I can dream of what only dreams have shown.