Mood Sonnet #9

Those potted-palm days of Edwardian glamor.
A wave of your pale glove, my lace-bordered sleeve.
Let's be spirits again, take the air on the Promenade.
Find that slow hotel room, with the window unlatched.
Lovely the falling and rising of compatible bodies.
At the top of the Wheel, world fades into truth.
Breeze grazes my cheek from conscience's sad island.
Below, small as a violet your wife's corseted form.
Is not erotic drama a crusade, holy and violent?
A place real as theater, to which I'll not return soon.
The egg of longing balancing on my open palm.
Our feathery costumes sun on the curious stones.
I want you to know when my heart hurt the most.
It hurt most when I made myself fade into sepia.