the desultory gambit, delivered
with the momentum of a trainwreck screeching across
the taut line of your body;
perhaps the ache could have been soothed,
the pestilence stifled with poultice,
but now we trade extremities as if
they were tattered playing cards, warm
from being held and made filthy
by the oil of another's unskilled fingers.
So... first poem in a while. . . how is everybody?