Women dominate my mind in schizophrenic images
of taut skin, legs opened like a butterfly pinned inside
a display case, and their impatient, rhythmic breath.

I think this is youth. I think this is the longing of
a human, the urges that come once the universe
loses its blackness, and all that is left is light.

I have learned to love the ******. The soft low
of an eventual freedom, exultant in a head-spin of
low blood sugar, and the careful throttle of her neck.

Women dominate my days as a conspiracy theorist
chases truth. It comes in fits of suspended disbelief,
believing that my body holds something wonderful
in the centre.