As I am being sandwiched
Between taut malingering palms,
This sudden correct placement
At the feet of a digit.
The tips and their prints shaved off—
Blank and ****** spots
Like a trail of breadcrumbs in fresh rain—
Leave thick dabs like oppressive dewdrops.
You can spread lips or cheeks
And allow this insertion again—
Perhaps the pleasure will emerge.
Finally I am human enough for your sick urge—
And it is too late for you to love me again.