I.

Sunlight slithers, insinuates itself,
amid preening palms.

Likewise, I goad my serpent
to rifle lady’s “bird’s nest”:
I don’t trifle.

When the moment
comes imminent—
of our monumental crisis,
our maximum crisis—

scissoring her suave silks,
or ripping the bed’s linen,

we know Tumult—the heart’s lusts—
desires as prejudicial as tears:

We fall sedate,
yes, not sated.