What it is,
tethered to your arms?
*** has gone.

******* hurled itself
out the door and into the highway,
lured by the hitch hiker's course.

Your ****** shaft bears
no resemblance to a sheathed dagger
that once slayed

indiscriminant of ***** lips and vulvous tongues.
Hands that hailed eyes
shut to meaning, mouthed

delirious to more than ailments of corporal pleasures.
Flesh to flesh,
breath to skin,

sweat of your brow
dripped into the last sheets
soiled and saturated.

But what is it,
tethered to your arms still?
Transfigured

to what lingers beyond
a look and a touch,
strings the web to another bridled day.