I shall not ask for your hand in marriage without a mask on your face.

Surprises are like viruses that diminish the potencies of passions.

Do not touch my body when you brush pass me on a cool summer

evening of shaded trees and spotlighted cars rushing by who knows where.

Gather your feelings when your bloom flowers, when your jogging body

pass mine so close.  I can smell your breakfast to come, your orgasms

with your flatmates, the flimsy secrets you keep hidden in your devices.

I will not kiss that mouth so riddled with words of apology until proof

of freedom from the rotten pestilence has been known to be crushed,

or not at all within the breath of your salty mouth and carefree attitudes

towards the sex you never have that emanates purely from flippancy.

Carry no bags for me when trying to be kind, do not iron my clothes, pass

my toothbrush, gargle words of disinfection or amnesties. 

You want to love me? Well keep two meters away and take your clothes off

so I can gaze upon your body safely while exploring my own fervent feelings. 

I do love your dance of possible death, the grace of the zips and buttons

undone for me in these thrilling times.  And afterwards, well after all this

cantering and touching imagination, I may reach out and you can rest your

fruit on my finger when you are completely clean of the disasters of viruses.