There is a tactile love
that grabs you in your sleep
A love of
kisses that once killed Keats
We live in a world of tailgating
easy lovers
brashly hopeful for a fortunate accident
But the memory of touch
is from a back-alley affair
the kind that makes overfull stomachs ache
and windswept hairs stand
as we frigidly shake
Naked, uninsured
A blue-road accident
unwitnessed, unfortunate
leaves me nothing but a scar
in settlement
be warned that
a left-handed lover
does not negotiate
and
for years to come you will receive
Morpheus-Mail
bills to remind you that
your damages
must still be paid
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