please, the facade of rich lit desire
shed your forked words
love may very well be a sophist
so intent on the place
so intent on the hour
there is no reason for anything
but what is as now
yet, still there is a fib
and i feel my chest pull tense
and flutter, my hands shake and perspire
there is a wound that carves deep past
my marrows and into the quintessential soul
it does not bleed or sting
but one coming dawn i see foreshadow
on the breath of my flirtation
when there is no place but here
and no time other than now
and i do not wish it to be so
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