If I count to seven
Will a hello still suffice
Or does chemistry demand
A more dexterous reward?
There are no dyphemisms
Between us now
The valve has been opened
The filter, though damp, is mostly clean
The worms in your heart
Entwine with the flesh of mine.
The scene is always the same
A choir of yellow crocus’
Our only witness and I think
Looking at that obstreperous bouquet
That you are only false in apology.
An emollient does not foster passion
When all is well, the fire does not subsist.
A man who exalts the hunt
Will never be satisfied with the ready
And I haven’t the patience for this.