Alpenglow on your cheeks constellate me
to our cosmos, quickening in this heliolater
of calentures that never convalesced. Lost
in its energy, I continue bird-dogging protocols
for cushioning my passage here. It’s said:
breathing is for one’s behoof. Engird this
without forethought, and obliterate your
embroidering of my heart with thread of tendresse.
Grammar has no third choice, like guilt.
Postcolonial Text, Vol 11, No 2 (2016)