1759: Our Cure

For S.L.

Foolishness had us locking fingers
into grips & crooks [urgent stuff of
other times when sex was not that
covetous act ] My mouth forms on
your name to recall our illicit graze
[perhaps too many times we found
our lips on bared skin – a corruption
of advised distances] but time riles
both of us – no brakes – no restraint
against vantages – not unless other
voices scold to disappointments [&
telling-off] Yearning smites us – but
this is an exoneration against more
dead-end lives – humdrum times of
panic in pandemic & other vile stuff
[so let us tussle & let us fall to love]

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