The lips of her desire are grey
and parted like a silk loop
a slight wanton wound.
She preys wearily
on sensitive wild things
You! Yes, you, small boy,
small for your age and made to look smaller
by the tennis racket you’re brandishing.
Solemn as stony
enclaves closed with evening;
late light lingering.
Your eyes adjusting
to her eyes so accustomed
to ideas of night.
The last heartbeat washes the body clean of pain
in a tide of endorphins,
the last sound coils into the ears, and stirs
ossicles, cochlea, the tiny hairs.