Love Poem

Sex is this constant coming into
    control
and withdrawing
    withholding
    without
the benefit of April.
We lean as one into sharks
to picture love
during lulls in sunless waves
as teeth.
We scrape away the face to call her
pretty afterwords.
    Embalmed in years
    without the stillness sensing
    stillness
    in the softness of her neck
she hands back my cadaver.
Once
    she was a sound
    encased in flesh
    and arced against the satin
    of my tongue,
	          yes
			cult of love
					you were
			as that defied
	     which defiled
when defined.
    So now we...?
Oh yes...!
... LOVE her altogether as some
species
when she spits and wriggles free from
her anatomy.
You see,
the whore of life
in death
of course
presents a cunning calling from the hand
that grips the heart in canines
    smiling so:
you thrill me
in perpetual
physical
cynicism.