Peach Arabesque

I was dancing in the shower spinning through ages in a throbbing vessel

thrust into orbit

by the sway of my hips.

My eyes closed, holding

a well of paraffined tears.

The well,

leviathan, corrosive,

thickened by droplets

of gold and spoiled milk.

Faggotry. I was spilling and gesturing in a flurry of sex—

an erogenous transmission

of my secret regrets. I was calling to heaven

on a bar of soap. Then you answered and I slipped. This can't be what you want. My aching limbs

from those lonely ballets

tangled up

in a peach arabesque.

Such ecstatic objection.

I'm so naked I look like my old body. Why did you have to love this body?