As out of a dry well,
what I feared never would
appear does, remnant taste
of Christ rusts on his lips
as my man nears surface,
an exorcism of all
of my indecision
cured by trusting my first

                    intuition, going
down in communion with
my heart’s thirsting dæmon
invigorating what
morals had trampled, where
and when a wilderness
surrounds us the only
indication of this

                    wild thing taking my breath,
of any sensation
resembling sentiment
or civilization,
is this trembling embrace
I wanted and waited
for centuries to make,
swallowing on sore faith

                    alone this seed of his
I take, missing the days
that never came, I taste
tomorrow in ev’ry
shaft of his heaviest
harvest I shake, breaking
bread with my man, planting
his mystery in my

                    hands as I kiss off love
and other messes of
lost pseudosciences,
putting my head’s belief
instead deep in hard facts,
unable to deny
him the truth of this beast
whom he tames by riding

                    bareback, an eternal
rebirth where cracks this mask
of life we call living,
when giving a fighting
chance to misfits uplifts
the lowly with a vow
and paints death on the lips
of saints, speaking softly,

                    haughtily, and always
defiantly of how
a man is more, no mere
image of an absent
creator, but the pure
shaper of every
thing, and the true ruler
of what he makes, no less

                    a life than love itself,
a spun fabrication
of the mind, silk formed so
“pornographically,”
a form so easily
torn, that this filth becomes
necessary to make
us all seem more human.