Fourteen Sonnets

I

Somewhere within the second kiss or first,
affronted by her flesh, so unlike mine,
the solipsist or child in me confessed
a truth: there is a ghost in the machine.

Seeing her now, one last time in her bed,
her limbs made hard in this audacious light,
I cannot be more certain: in that head
there is a world I cannot put to right.

Unspeakable, though willing still to speak;
untouchable, though able still to touch;
she kept her heart, all other things she broke,
then took her flesh: to prove I’d met my match.

Each night in each new darkness I must wake
to meet that ghost again: too much, too much.


II

Affronted by her flesh, so unlike mine,
(this even in the midmost of the fuck)
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