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.