i.

Passion leaves its marks, kisses like
claws licking off pounds of flesh, wounds
sustained in the taking of its

cost, lovers lost in the forest
of themselves, hollering for it
as if nature would ever change,

depart from its indifference
and nurture rebel animals,
fulfilling wishes with tears of

answered prayers spilling into those
empty vessels full of longing
hollow promises screwing them

all over, their wails pulling down
all the walls their defenseless hearts
put up in their climb, one hot night

after another, getting, then
got, higher toward a climax
the spasms of their entwined bodies

never called its lie out on but
implied was god, or felt like it
whenever they would come so hard,

                    ii.

unable now, paralyzed by
the passing of pleasure into
the morning-after æther, to

gather together what is left
of their dignity and climb out
of this well into which they have

fallen, this hell of a hole they
dug when digging each other too
much put on hold the saving grace

of a truer love which waits for
its victims before making of
them a sacrifice, cracking like

ice those glassy porcelains whose
eyes, no matter how many times
these dolls reconfigure their lives,

no matter the number of bright
costumes behind which they try to
hide, reveal a darkness within,

a menacing of breath fouling
the soul with its stench which only
centuries of repentance can cleanse.