is the eclipsed vault of the foot.
Tell me, what is that arch
that carves its way through your feet
into the unspoken and unexplored?
If in its inmost heart you can forge a religion
of ink and verse and whisper a secret vow:
that after writing them
I unwrite them all,
…but your sweet laughter
will keep me from restoring
the ink to their virginity?
It’s innocence, you,
the one who can’t accept
that to think about it
is already to bite
what’s forbidden:
a sensitivity that,
once imagined,
rises through your whole leg,
from below up to those promises
of honeymoons now eclipsed
by the perversity of desiring
that I write
from your lost innocence.