Over eight months, maybe ten

...realise with me, in release, moments locked
together, careful faces caught by frowns,
showing our working -
our plains of understanding changing -

intersecting. Sex has moved, is moving, being
drawn in to our domain. We have
invented it, and now it is ours to explore
for nights of hours, in words, and literary deeds.

We can write about - X; we
can sexualise middle-aged men, naked jumping
into water; we can dash them open
red on the rocks of our brains -
I suppose we feel it
our duty;

can take this man still middle-aged, feeling
proudly his still-young daughter beautiful,
have them enter arm-in-arm half-leering -
'how sad', we say - 'is this okay?' But we're
well assured, by this hot
and humid country -
in which we dwell, in which we feel we
must flee forward toward -

and fearing our dwelling on these things, these
body parts it seems we made, us
curling to, unfolding from -
fearing fecund this creation
(bodily thinking: is this great
or null? Will romance rise or has its rose
gone down already decomposed?)
fearing this creation
will be loud; noticed made sordid by
too much of the - world
and certain, though dark -
a thousand starts
aborted, thinking -
of this endlessly, unto
some swelling punishment -
must because everybody -
following...

It is hopeless but you
know what I mean.