A Fly on the Wall in the House of Lust

          In the making of love
          something is always destroyed,

if not simply misplaced,
compounding the misery in which
no one takes any interest,
cold-hearted fists of silhouettes
holding coded poses,
if only we could decipher this
damage, find in its mess
a message, and put to use its
lesson without going
overboard getting so caught up
in its web, lips sewn shut

by thorns of kisses,
even silence has a meaning
in moments creeping by when,
splitting strings of violins,
fingers bend to breaking
the point of this
game we have been playing,
faking moaning seeming validating,
somehow managing the screaming
of mandrakes in our pulling
this off, tugging at the root

of the problem tossing ropes
of comeuppance into the throats
around which tongues grope
for a way out, licking necks
distracts the flesh, makes sex with
strangers feel almost less
transactional than it really is,
buys time until we can
untangle from embracing
without shame the thing
our bodies need us to say,

          since souls can only express
          themselves through pain.