Wondrously Exempt From Sin

I look for guidance, sorting through
what (blessed and unblessed) referents
I possess – reject all but the best –
so few are left. I’m down to sex and death.
Creation and oblivion: the sweetness
of conveying one while doing justice

to the other. Listen to Prokofiev,
the aching second movement of his
second violin concerto – slinks like
an exacting, hungry serpent through
a summer night: slithering tonality,
exhuming what romance it can, before

it ends in banning my or any other fool’s
attempt to imitate its soft and swelling
thunder: wondrously exempt from sin.
Today I wait for someone dark and potent
to come in – and oh! he will – and we
shall sink again to that experience

of spilling everything into the gaping chasm
that one only glimpses through orgasm.
Survive the brink. The music of Prokofiev,
a serpent and another great dark man:
annihilate, exalt inimitably. I’ve had a cold.
Makes an animal inside me bold.

.