o , ecstatic plenitude in my good head
I wake up to the churning of my heart’s shallow water ,

lustful and prostrate beneath the tortured lights
of unity . we’re non-stop distinct

as we touch adulthood’s dripping wrist ,
its neon wet neck , as we negotiate

the coupling that has us draped
from wire hangers .

real love is such syntactic change ,
twisted in the melodramatic glare

of our grabbing despair by the foot ,
dry-heaving towards the pornographic .

under the face’s blue weight , you think
the heart is good without these gifts .

you think how in the brain’s red birth
the chest comes forward , the eyes click ,

the two-party situation is established ,
then the lips begin their scrambled flashing .