Kink

The moon assumes her voyeuristic perch

to find the rut of me, releashed from sense,

devoid of focus ’cept by your design.

I never thought restraint would be my thing.

Then you: the hole from which my logic seeps,

who bucks my mind’s incessant swallowsong

& pins the speaker’s squirming lyric down

with ease. You coax a measured flood, decide

the scatter of my breath & know your place—

astride the August heat, your knuckles tight

around a bratty vers, a fuschia gag:

you quiet my neurotic ass, can still

the loudness murmuring beneath my skull.

Be done. There’s nothing more to say.