No real desire is in itself unclear, up until the instant
of consent, where the traces end in hours and selves.
In the morning, I wake to what I have left open, jars
of cream and chat rooms, rising, as I have for weeks
now from the newlyweds' bed. Their succulents still
do not need water. When the road opens from storm
to light, do I pull over and watch the beaten steaming
fields? Or do I continue to turn away, less as from
temptation, as from a drifting purpose? Only those
two options: drifting or diving away, into a vermillion
gash, a rain-streaked freeway at night. Christ, if I were
in my love's arms again. But do I mean what I pray?
This in itself could be a trace of it, a motive. What was
left untouched, intact, like day, shedding its light also.