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A torrent slaps the smack-wet rock-moss floor

Your grimy hand which rolls and slurps and grasps

How dank and primitive; our stranger love

Some groggy afterthought, too drenched to quench

This out-of-body into-body mind

Remorse is null since thirsting rots sovereignty

Spelunking through a darker, deeper cave

For you I do not yearn, to yearn takes time

But time has dripped and sputtered rock eroded;

Stalagmite: antiquated marks from lust

—John Wellers

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