the quest

my eyes slide back
over and over,
to the folds
of your half breasts,
your clothes
don't matter,
and yet, they do,
teasing me
to imagine
what is not,
pushing my eyes
back to what is,

and I wonder why

why would a woman
of forty five
sink into the mystery
of a cleavage?
is it the known
or the unknown
that drives her eyes?
or is it simply
the insatiable quest
to slip into the throes
of an unknown life,
an unknown death?