like a forest inhabited
by varmints
are my hands
wanting that again
that close-enough
of a slouching to nirvana
  that demands a higher
  price, to have that between
  parched lips again
  even if my body
  still aches
  even if my mouth
still has in its dungeon,
   the aftertaste
like a garage for autumn
  abluted by the picking.
in this room of my mind darkened
   by a gnawing desire,
  its most secret deaths—

impending, singing and almost—
i have you now in my hands
   sealing my fate.