Man's Gotta Do What A Man's Gotta Do

Little glimmer –
fleeting phosphorescence –
beguiling in your way –

enough, in fact, to tempt
my heart to stay –
and pay for it.

And pay
I do. Why you
eclipse my sight –

and keep me
from all other sources
of a sustenance –

is quite beyond
my grasp:
and yet

I’ll always ask –
implore – the gauzy
vasty reaches

of your last exasperating
astral effability –
for more.


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