Complex

Nobody talks to me about poetry or lust anymore

I have to make it up myself

driving down into the valley, hand on the wheel

but my head in the clouds

wondering about small breaths and free verse

combining the curve of an ankle

and hand on the breast

with stanza breaks

mesh of flesh, night sweat,

complex has become my imagery of sex

like a pistol, working components

that can take or give depending on the mood

nobody talks to me about anything

anymore

but I am good company

for myself, though always

lonely.