My heart is the son of my body and it wants you.

Do you know how much that aches? Like a salt bath

for the blistered. Like a cold that haunts the bone.

It betrays me and I kneel to it; wouldn’t you call that

a kind of theft? A kind of breaking-in? In any unspoken

language, shame is a palindrome that riddles me:

through the holes, a blue moon whistles nearby,

me and all your untouched desires gathering. At night

every bell is your voice ringing my name. I am already

willingly of you, ungainly with consent. May I touch

the clouds of your chest with my fingers? Am I fated

to be the lover who begs?