The Mote
She appears nursing a child.
Her body leaks into my mind
on a busy street.
Desire nurses the imagined
into secrecy.
A dark bed hides dark hungers.
One small image
attached to her attractive form speaks.
It leans over her arm...
“If you keep breathing life
into a lust,” it says,
“desire grows a plasmid body.”
I create again its mother,
her enticing smile.
That sexual magnetism
I took home to undress.
The ghostly infant
moves close to my mind.
“Don’t worry,” it says,
“my crippled condition
cannot be seen
behind wide open eyes.”
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