Whatever faithful few of you still read here, I am curious as to your respective reactions toward the seeming ubiquity of sensual themes in my writing. Tell me.

Truly, I expect only one reply. The rest will be pleasant surprises.


OBDURATE

The frightened splay
of muscles—
a glitter of eye—
I thunder within
the armor of my blood.

but baby
I have murdered for less.
I have split
the carapace of the moon
for the taste.

I am rich
with this hoar-hot hush,
the silence of my knuckles—
the thrush
of my mute thighs.

Heretic:
the cloister of your spine,
vespers in the dark,
dulcet.