Armchair

She sits upon her beauty
like a favorite armchair;
no longer a brilliant novelty
from a biological furniture outlet
but a fast friend, old
as the peremptory mistress
with which it came.

And what man could help
but swallow reality in shots
and revel in the impossible
which sprung a dizzy surprise
(like Athena, from the head of Zeus)
into a damnably sober life?

She slept atop her beauty
as if upon an antique loveseat,
arm covers hanging askew
polish worn on the corners
so nothing distracts from that immaculate grain.

And what man could resist,
when divine fortune stretches its hand,
to grasp that hand,
and perhaps even pull the tiniest bit?

She slept upon her beauty,
embracing her pillow with the
carefree affection of sleep

And I watch, paralyzed
by the fragility of this moment

And the depth of its candor.