love concocts
  a slow death.  the night
          chronic with melancholy.

     somewhere in the world
   a man, contemplative,
   underneath a lasso of light
    peers through the window
      without a word,
     only an insignia.

    we are
    only
    tender bodies
    in supple movements
    trying to weave out
    timid moments
    trying to shatter
    the inertia
    of being
    here.