Besotted

Ah, to be beside yourself –

bestride the glories of a brimming

love, too fresh, too unencumbered,

too ridiculously succulent

to keep your lips from licking it –

or wanting to – the shunting  

to and fro of your besotted heart

between its secret stories

and the rash audacities of flesh,

its flush, its cadences, its blooming

heat, sweet radiance of private

sweat you almost smell –

oh no, oh yes, the sweat you smell,

the tongue you’d put to it – the spell –

the unimaginable possibility of hell. 









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