Lust soups up
in the mind

solely for the sake
of storming walls.

The only way to a man’s heart
is through invention,

through taking turns
at rewriting the terms of insertion.

I dawn now, for sake of deception,
this new diving dress—

a canopy of lost legs, a canopy
of stolen sweets, a canopy of frill

against the floor, man’s
best intentions

steeping into the salty sea.

How to dismiss the mistress—
see Eurocentrism.

See sobriety.
Here lust sits, lost

in silent games of solitaire,
pinning sovereign nations

against the inseams of the mind.