Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl
had been drained from the sky and the crows rose
in their trees to caw gray into the world
I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,
in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia
curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog
while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia
of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog
a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that
you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days
of crow caws and ice match my libido.
Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat
retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise
pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.