Monday, May 26, 2008


He is perfect we understand
we share lust for touch
we share irritation and spasms of violence
he raises his arm ready to swat
I feel the tension in my own hand
he is wired, like every perfect one
I strike one-two-three-four
he strikes once and is done
he nuzzles into my bosom and I long for tongue
Now! he cries. I say just a minute.
Better not to stare too long eye to eye
Better not to see where understanding ends
or where strange misunderstanding must stray.

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