I am aware of the body
of evidence that weighs
against us. Naked movements
press against the groin
of my love for you; protection
from the call of the world
is impossible. What delights,
delights. I am powerless
in the swelter of fleshed-out fantasy,
potency locked in the grip of what is
immediate and tangible as testament
to emptiness and desire. I cannot
be every woman and every man
is honestly an object, possibly
a subject for my inclinations . . .
the lost Body has only one direction,
blameless and resolute, it seeks a reflection;
Mind sways seductively, smiles
its calculating infection. It destroys.
discarded and cast lightly into a dark sea of faces
begging for it—love dissipates,
hissing as the teeth of hot demands
puncture the soul, the center, the source
of everything. Or perhaps there was nothing
but this wounded dance
around the danger of being
alive and always undressing.
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