Monday, September 13, 2021


For all of its plaudits, 
love works 
like a virus—

and unknown, it grows 
without goals; 

when it attaches, it 
bores down and 
binds us 

to our skeletons, 
to these hard discrete cores
which we'd been 

trying to keep from 
bobbing to the surface. 

It is nothing 
but a brainless, selfless, 
welter of confabulations 

which causes us 
to confront 
and expel 

the only other feeling 
which, hitherto, 
we'd come to know: 

the vague prickle 
of our 
own nauseous longing;

the sickness 
of our selves.