Sex is the nail that only drives part way,
then bends, the trail of snakes across the Earth.
Sex is the Lord of Void inside the clay

that turns to flesh from breath in a single day.
Sex is the salve we rub into the hurt—
the sweet, addictive sweat that smells like hay.

Sex is the knife we use in the dark to betray
our love for nothing—cut out its heart.
Sex is the fire that burns all day

and into the night, the prayer too easy to say.
Sex is the Wanted God who hides in the dirt—
the master spy behind the lines, the gray

then bleeding sky on the eighth impossible day
on which we were aroused by shame to flirt.
Se is the eveningwear we wear all day—
the tight reptilian suit that smells like hay.