The Cure

           When you are nuzzle-hupfing my neck

I try not to think about the wild

and forbidden things that you have tasted:

the blood memory behind your dark eyes;

the deep secrets of the soil

translated huff by huff into the moist

slits of your nose.

I surrender to your rasp as it

tastes the grooves of my face,

imagining the oils of my industrial,

combustive day lapped

up metallic on your tongue.

Your eyes glaze with the rhythm

and intensity of your  effort

to tame and detoxify me, and

I obediently fall into your dumb darkness

of dust and dog pee and wind-borne gossip.

You take me to the entrance of innocent sleep

and teach me the beast language

in which suffering is cured by more suffering,

while civilization whines and howls,

indecipherable and distant

between the bellies of the hills.