Your Request

How can you give permission to indulge in those feelings?  To request that I write down the imaginary passions inspired by a passing young thing?  Of course I saw her supple, and what’s more the smile given by and received here, and what’s more our pulling dog, and what’s more the sun bleached grass and children, and what’s more the haze from that same sun, how the invisible moved.  •  But the moment I saw, the moment I caught that glimpse, I locked my eyes away, buried them for fear that they might get stuck, to protect you from seeing me seeing- lest you want to stare along side, or creep along on bellies in bushes, or make eyes and smiles, or even reel around together our absurd somersaults over wanted affection.  •  Then we trot off to jail; maybe not the sort “because she is a passing young thing”; maybe instead from the likely feelings turned round, abusing us when we are not so romance filled, or when German chocolate cake infects the stomach and head with the jealous, or any moment that our looking out/looking for is compromised and then the request/the permission is loaded, brim full with rules, a piling prison that fills up; our hurt feelings, betrayal, feeding on our own stupid, stupid, stupid.  •  I better not.  Despite the permission; your request.