Not shame in a Catholic way

but in the gulping down insects way

rushing around town with an air of busyness

distracting myself from you.

The shame of malleability, how

I’m a stick of rock left in a

damp place, all spiky looks but really

spools of need, and so much interest in pleasing.

A new playbill,

a lazy Susan of fucking options,

an unveiling of an onion – and no rot! –

just more onion!

Actively trying to remove the immediacy,

add a flourish of something lasting.

You fool! Life’s gems are here in this moment.

His lips, dried, cracked: you must wet them.

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