It’s like the tug-of-war,
Between sex object and love fool,
In that blurred interface
That bloats both, far beyond their capacities,
To the witchcraft of tactility.
Spellbound, you just walk through love,
Not just as a promenade, also as an offering
Of your body to hers,
To cash in on summer eclipses.
Two celestial objects that are known
For their solitary poses of glory,
Become, superimposed, one over the other,
And in that rendez-vous,
A two-way aphorism becomes an expression,
Of perfect grammar, in flawless conjugation,
Inflecting wounds, of stormy delirium.
