They whispered to each other
what would become lies.
Sometimes they called it love.
Through the years
vines grew on their bed
eventually trapped their skin.

Inside them light dimmed.
Sex not a figment
of the imagination,
just another secretion.
A distraction from
inevitable intrusions
of work to do
and bills to pay.

Thinking made it faster
and money easier
to brave the crowd
and endure each task.
Accomplishment not much
different than insult
… in the world.

Approving of his warmth and fur
and hardness of his arms,
her eyes promised
sweat in the wind
and the pleasures of the moon.

They rented a home
and reproduced the future.
She mixed blood into the oatmeal.
He slashed the dirt
with their ancestor’s bones.
If there was a thunderstorm
they flew a kite for electricity
and tried to explain
their childhoods
in between commercials.

Every few months
death arrived,
Rarely had a noise.
Nothing lasted.
Only lingered.

copyright 1995, held by author