.
Marveling at my bravery, I bring you home
peripatetic stranger whose very bones
move me to an exquisite inadequacy.
Helpless to stem the rush of sense
I venture, daring to smell your hand,
sniffing, cataloguing, storing—indiscriminate.
Preparing ammunition with which to shoot down
bleak days, to stuff gaping holes running to ragged edges
that invade me when you leave.
Too soon, I imagine you happy,
rehearse logic that will confound and
push you into the nearest corner space.
Recklessly, I move to touch your face
hoping to leave behind the searing imprint of cells
that will brand you lover, ruined, and mine.
.
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