Sweating fistfuls of light drop their load, pink slips
     of dawn come off, quitting skies for a saunter
     through night, parading triumphant like a boss

     roads kissed by souls lifted, what asphalt gifted
     a good girl’s fall as smoke rings grace her hole’s door,
          molasses-tongued bastards licking their way in—

     boulevards of them marching pentameters
     as spinster winds sprint held-breathed Spenserian
          stanzas in an effort to warn her, blowing

     silence apart with art that, from their lips, darts
     through mist as if Cupid knew his hard-on hurt,
          that mo(u)rning’s the cost all slow-burning hearts pay—

     passage from intrigue to in-me broken by
     delayed force like the hymen of day, pausing
          to play victim what paves over time’s river,

     reminding lovers how blind a date’s window
     of opportunity can be, how brutal
          the purpose of nature nurturing in us

     all the impure importance of not saying
     no, but now, how its tasteless aspartame-sweet
          utterance leaves nymphs such as she wandering

     sugar-heeled and forest-free, with unrestrained
     lechery, through those no-longer-wooded wilds
          men call cities, how rushed desire makes dawn late—

     pausing daybreak’s cycle to impregnate first
     light with inexplicabilia, pleasures
          unheard of until this flight from heaven, her

     thirst for one night in the arms of hell’s dark man,
     playing truant to test the ban, sunrise runs
          through cock-crowing twilight to take lust’s damp hand—

     lightning, with jagged thigh and crucible-bright
     smile, trespasses ancient protocol to bless
          their union, dawn and dusk consuming themselves.