I have a few artificial inclinations toward the night -

toward the dark,
downtrodden companionship
that comes intersecting with
the anthropomorphic intercourse
of love at first delight;

though, I confess that
I find myself too old
to saunter before the moon
nude anymore,

though my mother stood
robust and shapely on the porch
of my many dreamily spent
summer nights cooing to the
same sky I find myself under.

The only thing that separates
me from the stars is the screen
flush with the window sill; there's
no arm cast over my like a veil any more.

No limbs
besides my own.

No haunting breath caught
deep within my throat, a hissing
reminder of the voice I lost, so
speechless was I by your
mixed inclinations,

like the languages I don't speak,
but wish I did.

And I have a few artificial inclinations about love -

but I wait for the night to drive them away.