A beat oozes from somewhere deep below
me. It’s the rattle of the fan. The squeaks
that the floor makes. The day’s heat, all day-glo,
neon green, waves filtering up in streaks,
halos. I feel it when I press my cheek
against the warped wood; a beat totally
alien to my own heart. A wild shriek
of drums when drums shriek. What debauchery
isn’t kinship to such noise? That riot
of want that has no language except need.
I hear it, barely. All that you call smut
I call prayer. All that is green and honeyed.
All prayer is need. I bend down to the floor.
I need more than this queer beat. I need more.
