In the lampligh

‘And I have known the arms already, known them all –
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
…
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.’

In The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T. S. Elliot

* * *

I will sing you from my hands
Sing you out of these bare hands
And copy the shape of your light
In the dark

I will lift your heavy eyelids
Find secrets through your eyelids
And draw the sound of your shape
In the room

It will be a soft marching night
With tedious languid drunken spasms of sentimentalism
That taste just like rum and fun

I will use you and your skin
Bury my fingers in your bare skin
And I’ll never tell you this
In the morning

Or maybe I will wake up and tell you everything
But you will not say a word ‘cause you’re tired
You’ll always be too coward and too tired
In the light

It will be a soft marching night
With tedious lethargic drunken hands of indecision
That taste just like sand and snow

I will try to catch some stars
Try to scratch the window stars
While you watch the morning
In the wall

It will be a soft marching night
With measured damaged drunken minutes of uncertainty
That taste just like fire and water

It will be a soft marching night
With new swaying drunken habits of secrecy
That taste just like me and you

Still I feel like I will do for tonight

In the lamplight