My dear, you are too brittle – thick and chill.
I wonder whether water: dampened light
Which seeps through tongues, wets you, as well.
Does tantric wind place her hands ‘cross your sight?
To tease. To flick her whispers at your skin.
And blind. Do swollen nature’s veins in leaves
Roll stiffly under thumb – like yours within?
I wonder what the cost for this disease.
To rupture is to heal. To split; then sew –
To skim the supple surface tension of skin; to reel –
In sunlight as in love your veins should glow –
Do men without flesh really feel?
My dear, your soul is brittle. Sense, it lacks.
You try, but fail, with helpless hands of glass.