I skirt the cosmos and count stitches.
I will kiss on the mouth the beggar
that discarded this bowl of evening,
while a child bawls its ancient hunger.

I hiss back at a cat that crosses
my turf; it slinks away after its
shadow like a fleeting scent of
a run over carcass on the street.

A window confides the hum of lust.
There is no need to alter my mode.
For I am beyond the ritual
lovers must on each other inflict.