Platonic Love

We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.

She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.

I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.

On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.

I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.

After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.

Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.

Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.

I confess to her what's in my Eckhart. We Locke.

By this point, we're totally Blavatsky.

We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.

She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.

She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.

I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.

She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.

We Foucault.

She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.

I roll over and Derrida.