The Skin Is a Tent
that holds desire in—taut like ripstopover ribs arched back in pleasure—whipof whether—lash of self-restraintIn dream I pin you down between breast-bone and hard ground—granite spineof mountain, room blue with air—pleuralspace of atmosphere which I longto puncture exhale exhaustingly—unlesssex is sleeplessness in full sun under mosquito-spattered tarpaulin—tornbetween a gut-punch oflust & reason I tell myself not …