THE GAG

I turn to speak—but
where your ear should be
is only
the crystal swath
of hair.

the single body alone in the universe—

I pass out
the glass doors into
the deep dawn
and you follow
and I turn
and you turn and I seek
if not solitude then your ear
and you offer your lips—
again—scarce bleached
of our nocturnal yaw.

and not the truth—

Of these I have
had my glut:
lips gypped of word
by the tangle of lips,

Of hurling out my cry—
and then only
my spit clutched
in your throat.