At last: dawn. Crows in the trees wake. The trees
wake. The virus inside me stirs. Somewhere
lovers feel breath on their necks. Smell of sleaze
and gods. Rough taste from the roughest affair
is a blessing, too. Somewhere but not here.
Here? The chemistry inside me hates me.
My mouth fills with a taste: I’ll call it fear
of hints, of the things to come. Irony:
to long for longing. The one truth I know
I can’t have. Only this virus will claim
me. All the rest tsk over my health then
move on. Dawn won’t last even as the crow
caws her love. I despair then fill with shame
at my regret; the one thing I called sin.