A Heart Should Always Be Beaten

A wife of mine experimenting
with adultery for the first time,
twining round ribs of ivory threads
of another man’s flesh, denying
us both a glimpse of eyes we mistake
for trust we compromise as if death

were a fitting price for this mess, death
lifting its withered fingers—mistake
not his gesture’s vigour denying
only fools its experimenting
clue—moves peaceless across the bored, threads
into the hair of heaving chests time

he takes from we who let play us time
and again the same woman, sweat threads
its way and paints, experimenting
as blood does with heart-meat, a shade death
proclaims as a victory, denying
colour a place in cheeks we mistake

for vases kisses break by mistake,
she wastes in her embrace, denying
even me a taste so sweet as death
before devouring whole my soul, time
eats at your bones, experimenting
as flame does with æther, explodes threads

of promises to tears, throws those threads
onto fires her experimenting
desires compete with mine to burn, time
will take from us our wounds, turn mistake
and misfortune into lessons death
will profit from learning, denying

neither of us our love denying
her its benefit, if we greet death
with what heat he cannot but mistake
for that desert breath she pants in threads
delirious, even we might time
enough beat him, experimenting

          like the devil with a better mistake
          than hers when she let slip secrets, threads
          we snip in our experimenting.