My die-cut heart has grown implacably thin
On a hardscrabble fantasy, but that’s love
For you, dangling on a chain of keys to nothing.
She’s an insomniac drooling in the sun, my heart
That is, a thousand roses pressed in a book of flesh.
That’s not the dumbest thing I could say but close.
How about hunger is a voice field dressing a live
Wolf as we make out with it—the improper fit
Of our mouths pressing together in abject passion,
As its fur, a slipped-off negligee, drops to the floor
With measurable attack, sustain, and decay.
Blood resigns from the body as a voice says,
Yes, say that, except rise and fight with Satan
Who has long loved God more than any man.
