damn...

The Suspension of Appropriateness


The game:
Matching wits
holding tight
to our most
recent breath
waiting for
the next dart,
the next shot
at a button
to gnaw at,
to nibble on and
try to undo,
to sight skin
just a twist
more of skin
to plan
the next move,
to plot
what to do
just in case
it’s best not
to go ahead
and succumb
to those
long aching
arms that fit
my embrace
like a new
pair of old
gym gloves.

oh, Wake Up!
it’s not like it’s not
much more fun
to set traps, to pursue,
to fully undress and make sure
that you tingle without me
yet having had
to trace the prim rose
satin that
pains at this, my
restrained touch.

And,
would you know?
I’ve felt tremors lately,
Volcanos erupting
Tectonic plates
adjusting.
Nature
Disposes as I
merely propose:
Would Darwin approve
of our game,
this modernity, this
our natural love?