Real Presence

Voices recede into distant days
of smegma, earwax, talc, and starch.

I often recall your warbling heart,
the way it bent in certain directions,

severed pipes and bleeding cuts
dripping from your tricuspid valve.

A hunger for you roars through my peripheries,
dreaming of mazes, scissors, and tape.

Wily parasites enter my thoughts,
comfort denied in my maps of futility,

fishnets of culture draped on the world,
shot through with thirst for your body and blood.