let's not be doomed by the settlement of what we want
instead of discovering what we do now.

Light chickens out, light resists and
short-circuits accidentally. Light can,
supposing the time was passed
and the roast was forked,
it can draw us into a scratch.
Light proffers a skip, two skip
three skips away, leaves to question
those asking after the color.

Light bleeds out from a finger in the eye,
a nail in the corner of horrid sketches
that etch a late offshoot, a straight mongoose
chasing kraits for alimony.

Slurping love and licking our hands
sogged with a cream to soften the skin,
slippery enough to jinx action by type-speed,
bleached with complacency; such is the pitch.
and the turnless, sweaty scream.