like something's dying that was never born.
Our joy sounds like oblivion's being torn
from agony as very well it might.
For love can seem like torture as we clinch
scratch with our fingers rasp within our tongue
sweat slick come wet ejaculate among
mixed senses information. Inch by inch
we touch each other, body soul and mind,
make witty answers to each inner touch
do things that words like fuck and screw and such
inadequate descriptions that we find
are all we can remember or can speak.
All fierce sensations leave our language weak.