It purrs for recession, exacting loss

as a glucose for fevered solitude,

traipsing in the mist with dignity

 

as inked as a lily. Rousing that

Bastard I, it visits memory with satire

and it feels good.

 

But not for long.

 

Baroque pilgrim to the taste, he does not swallow

all her fleshy cancer,

only the ones that give him occupation

 

to love as bodies pray: tangled up

for reflection. This aches.

Such maps we heave around!

 

Dusting ourselves off, flimsy fingerprint

after fingerprint arguing a colony

we planted for someone else

 

to show us how to be ourselves,

and when that vixen anchor falls opaque,

we protect

 

The Nihilist.

 

No heart diseases more than romance,

nor sits an angel so pure

As a touch without agenda.

 

A touch, my love.

 

A touch.