All cosmic activity
that does not contribute,
even indirectly,
to testicular and ovarian arousal,
to the meeting of sperm and egg,
is contemptible.
Take a falling star. I mean,
imagine a meteor plunging earthward,
a flaming rock
slamming the shell of the planet.
The spawn of this
galactic lust,
my love,
is us.
We are space-dust golems,
silt-sifted mannequins
posing for a brief
season behind dark glass.
I could beg you to sing,
my darling. I could
plead until you dance.
So what if a fox
prances on your midnight lawn
beneath the winter magnolia.
So what if I do.
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