The Man on the Loveseat

He’d long ago got comfortable
taking all of it up – erupting
to a not un-joyous breakthrough:
spreading his limbs as wide
as ardent mouths sing hymns
at Eastertide. He’d resurrected
into room for no one else –
autonomy defined his ride through

night and day: it seemed by now
the right inevitable way.
If destiny decreed that every
he or she was meant to be
with certain other he’s or she’s,
he’d watch it serially, like TV,
and think: “that isn’t me.”
You’d like, perhaps, to see him see
his error. But at the moment he

is too distracted musing over
the alluring slow and gentle
onset of a beauty getting
almost too excruciating not
to have some link to terror.
Its seeping-in had been as
incremental as his sitting on
a loveseat now was incidental.

.