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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.