How odd to be here surprised by it,
what was coming, if it came -
as it has so far, so far seeming
like the coyote’s tip-toe lifted -
now the precise shadow of an ACME anvil falling.
The desire for zest, for acrid pith,
tearing membrane, the bright acid sweet-oiled orange,
pulp and juice lipped and tongued - to evaporating complacencies
of Sunday morning peignoir meditations on death and beauty
sputtering to a nap in late afternoon.
If it isn’t death it’s beauty. Or beautiful death.
Or the death of beauty. Or deathly beauty.
Or sex. It’s often sex.
Which is, the urge - still.