We visit our then, a scrim of sense, diffusing pleasure like burning lemon oil
and surfeit our now, a false dredge of real, deferring the candy-colored recoil.
Bodies heaped in undulating ether, sweat-sore and sticky smiles, lie assured
the way it never was, but ever lives in imagination craved of slick-thin succor.
I was never that woman, you never that man, and yet we perform our analysis
like religion, like cookie dough on a sheet, anticipating the rise and melt of us.
At last I ceased tracking the trailer down an outstretched road to preview then.
Steady we blow, chime-sounding earth’s heaving guts of it all in resolved amen.