The Moon’s Lewd Rug
Hopelessly turning away from the familiar,
the dearly taken, miles of earthly love,
folds of familiar greetings, early kisses,
underneath the moon’s lewd rug,
loving the familiar and despising its scent
when it becomes a little less than it is
or should be, or was. Not hurriedly
but certain I must; not without regret.
But afraid a little of my power,
my erection potent, fragile, yet
more than enough, too much
because even I will coil in turn
at its sight, this being neither familiar
nor strange, but helplessly tragic,
like lust, or a bleeding away,
or a return to blind form.