The love we walk around with is a dull tool—though it hangs from our belts with a rusty grace, like planets expertly wired in a model of space that slowly turns when whoever built it pulls
Blissed with the notion of forbidden lust, lothario of forever-mantled satisfaction, prolong this unreal engagement—senses multiplied and shunted in constant theme and variation—prolapse, my wandering
When color comes back to the world, leaving gets near. By the roadside, auburn and cream cows chew spangled green. Creeks steam. A lone bull’s horns gore
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