Sex is not enough. Though if it comes from deeper hurt,
actions less acting out tides of hormones
than drives settled in like colonies in the extremities
shadowing our mastermind waiting for a partner
worthy not of the mailbox but other procedures
to force into the open—that’s beauty in love,
the tearing open of wounds, the sparing of disappointments,
elements alone no more than the ongoing shedding
or frames destroying a museum.
Even children stuck in the rut of their golden spoons
grow out of their sugar daddies one day
seeking calm bliss and it all falls happily apart.
The dream lifts. It is insanity to survivors
in a hooded world. Guarded.
All designed to turn away, quiet
and mountainous. The frowns worn proudly.
Torn from mother or father.
The smiles through robotic voices
deaf to themselves,
sweetly following fashion, unloved
before it struck them for a reason for not to care for,
or a whim set aside over the long work weeks.
We wait, watching the dragonflies clean the air
where library lampposts go on, and bats veer through
specimens too large to gather like bones
steering through the dusk.