The love-struck deer is asking, with his eyes
and tongue, is asking, with black gums and quivering
limbs, to be let in–
grinding against the actual gristle and crystal of salt,
wetted and domed in the forest’s center.
Someone else’s pleasure is always present.
The lick’s a sensate toy, a voyeur, watching him work:
shrinking her body by the second,
using lust, that dominant drug, to disguise aggression.
Apologies to the soaked ground, marked with arcs:
trampled bed, doomed intersection.
Reading tonight at Brookline Booksmith. I’m not going. I just get lots of email.