It is the man, his whiskered
face that scrapes against my own.
He is not himself, I know.
It is the mistress
disease itching at the man.
I hate it.
I hate its molestation,
its grasp on his calf, its
blood pressure −
its peacock pulse.
Climbing Long Canyon,
this fine frisson
of marriage, our plunging
murmur of union −
What holds and holds and then is clotted into wilderness?
Not even my voice
can call him.