The next morning you’re a mess, literally.
Damn the shag carpet. There are fresh rug burns
on your chin, across your ass, on each knee.
They will fade soon, from raw’s red to slattern’s
brown; then scabs will form, delicate as lace.
Around your throat and on your hips bruises
throb, both blue and yellow, marks of embrace
that match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras
blessing our love; but all flesh aches, which leads
to suffering. Buddha would bless the itch
that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,
letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.