I think this poem came from an assignment revolving around E.E. Cummings' "may i feel said he" nobody else wants it, so I'll give the orphan a home here.
The Images of the Inspiration
A mountain gives way
To a hand that squeezes it,
Fingers grip the foothills
And proceed to the peak
Where they stop and dance.
The ridge rises and a breath
Heaves a ghost out from a mouth,
She falls to the bed and he follows her.
Buttons slide from holes and come out,
Skin flies open and strong, a pale ocean
Opens up that his hands skate along
As the flags that cover them up fall to the floor.
Coming together in one vessel, waves
Turn them over and each one struggles
To be the general, the prophet, the genius
She wants to play a game,
He wants to divide and conquer.
Arms hold, they swallow her body,
Cover her in new clothes that he made:
Strong bars of iron, she wears him like a cage,
His lips come down to her forehead,
She is smacked by them until she is numb.
The battering ram lowers and is dropped
Barbarians ease through the gate
It is raised again, though the gate has fallen,
It comes down beating the walls like a drum
Waiting for everything to fall.
A wail stops the rhythm,
But he resumes
Once there is a promise
That comes from his heart
Like a blind messenger in the night,
A vague contrition coupled with a plea
To let him continue with his drumming.
Her skin grows cold, though only
A patch on her shoulder holds winter
While the rest of her sweats summer,
His finger carries the feeling of night
It rolls on her skin and she feels it
A wheel of gold spinning along.
He lights a cigarette, the paper sail
In his lips ignites and spreads smoke,
For him a convenient curtain
To announce the end of the action and
The coming of the next scene,
For her, it gathers like a storm
And her breath stops, trying to hold in
The air of the recent past.
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