the wound cannot be written out
we will not empty ourselves
of self loathing with language
not tonight
not this time
or ever

love was only an enthusiasm
changeable, quick to sway
the project made of learning it
a meaningless one

the ironing out of distortions
smooths the wrinkles of passion
into sterile chrome heavens

cold to our brushing fingertips
losing their prints
as we forget
to be self conscious

M S C

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