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)