oh, god, I bet her name is not Dahlia, I am sorry,
but the mercenery stare begets the predatory in another, I wish
that she had not wondered what it would be like to live with
me, I wish that she had not looked at my legs when we first
met for coffee, her hand flirting with my knee, for I can see
in her a dignified humility, an uncertainty at her value, a
pained devaluation of herself, and how much she needs oh merely
comfort, a hand to walk her out the door, arms to embrace her
quietness, so messed with and so befouled that she cannot bear
the touch of another, but thinks each touch a transaction like
those she has known where she stares at ceiling and thinks of
syllabi while entered by another's cock and tongue, and he cannot
look her in the eye, for if he did, he might be met by such
a look of recognition, he would be shamed and curdle up within
his sperm, and, yes, she must have nice legs, that is, I think
I've seen her in a dress, but didn't notice, I was so watching
the pain flicker on her face, well, it is always like this,
some of us are drawn by desire and find its enchantments take
us back to human realms, where we are called to be more than
we are, and others of us are drawn by desire and finds its enchantments
withdraw us to inhuman realms where we make of others and ourselves,
a commercial, an advertisement, a predatory groan, though some
say that it is that we are called to love everywhere, in everyone,
and see in the appeals to flesh, the human I, so torn