...

The women we blame for the
bitterness of broken dreams,
yet salivate at the sight of raw meat.
We gather, clap our hands together
in thin drunken comradery,
each nursing ecstacy and yearning,
that humbles the most hardened face.

When she moans, she moans for me;
She must love, but her love has grown
increasingly vulgar and away from me.
Her passion, fingered and petted:
out on the street, chasing cars,
I wouldn't know what to do
with the real thing.