Heat

On first glimpse the shiver was that of a fever maybe
but the tears you brought in my eyes
had nothing to do with my body’s condition:
you moved me. You supposed I was in heat,
so I let you make all the ritual manoeuvres
to get us laid, to fornicate, to pretend love.

As for lust you were a train and I a tunnel,
you a steaming plough and I was Earth.
The point in all of this? I had no idea during.
The train went to an unknown destiny,
the seed, looking for some fertile soil,
every little polliwog a possible new person,
fell pointless on the concrete of the diaphragm.

Soon after you left, the tunnel imploded,
the Earth became a desert where tumble weed rolled.

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