Sleeping With Howard Roark
Only so often before that long chisel
his thigh became more obstacle
than fertile marker; only so many times
could spread as wide as a compass
to be ruled by the international
Roark never smiled during sex.
He'd just throw me right
onto the appropriate organic materials
for the occasion, and I'd fit
into the form
he most desired. I'd unfold, his blueprint.
seen him dive into that quarry,
when just a girl without shape. An
I knew only molten ore. I craved pistons
and city walls erecting
a new future,
and his arc that day down into clarity
struck me as it did
that sheet surface
as a sign that though there was no God
there was a good
in any body whose will
threw them from a height to tame water,
they would break it rising for air.
A body to hammer out design, to
things to thrust high above the masses;
as when he'd say all his
was in the stress point where we both came,
golden mean; lust, curvilinear
abstraction. An unbroken I-beam, he'd
me to masculine function, engines rolling
across an open horizon of
iron and chrome.
A fist would take my hair to cut his mouth on,
free and unrepentant home of stone.
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