I track my every minute, nine to five,
obsessed with a thing without substance,
time, efficient to a fault, creating days, or
destroying until night.
I kiss my lover’s lips, his back,
submerged in our ocean of two-toned flesh,
us, ignorant of otherness, in ecstasy, or
dancing wide-eyed on it.
I watch for death, the sword,
curious from the crevice of my mountain,
life, perched on the edge of it, half-awake, orhalf-asleep, perhaps, perhaps dangerously.