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A gust of blood puddles the rug;
roses dash in the other direction
where endearments are uppermost
but the true path ineluctably muddied.
Oh gods have you forsaken us now and for all?
Even the voyeur who is not a spy
barely sees what's in front of his nose
though he peers hard with his ear and his hands.
Only one more shot remains on the roll.
In this art multiple charges pulse
with a gluttony sparked by starry skies
and the trenchant moon in its rigged figments.
We do not want our appetites made sport
or lapped up by wanton
winds' digressions with rain.
We do not want our desires daunted that way.
We had hoped they would slip their tongues
into our mouths and cruise our plights,
quicksilver lusts hot to shimmy all through the night,
not these come-lately words
laid down by a celebrant lying in wait
for a malleable moment to pull out a pen.
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