No, I tell you. Our myth. Our love. Each night
after all, after heyday, after change
(sun spent into flowers) and dimday’s bright
chorus (swallows and bats), after our strange
chorale (split-ears, stump-fucks: let the chaste scoff),
we’ll go on all fours (think: rouge, ink, fishnets).
We’ll ball through mist. For some we’re a turn-off.
They turn us off, click-click, like TV sets —
Others want what we have. Hot hours drop. Cool
throated stir. Moonshine and hollyhock blunts.
Grass stains in the dark. Our spluttering mewl.
You can’t turn us off. We’re what the chaste hunt.
We’ve cocked seething coals, cunted our love myth,
cauterized with discord, with dark world, with—