How delighted you would be
to have Pan sniffing at your lap again,
while the sun’s hot coroner scrotum
fattens its seasonal stalks.
The cadence of this sentence moves away
with a little backlash wind of sin.
Can no one learn the rules of love
before entering the game?
The flower-covered holes,
the shots-in-the-field emotions?
Then back to being nobody,
wearing anybody's bones.
Remember when it all came at you,
like nymphs tearing off their clothes
before plunging into . . . whatever?