We have it
on good, albeit
tacit authority;
we can taste it
in the fear
drizzled lust
on the tips
of our tongues—
a little blot
must rightwise come
to the end
of every sentence.
Approaching
this limit
is a stunt
which none
are in a hurry
to rehearse, yet
listen to all of us—
just dying for
the practice.
