Little yellow houses pock the landscape
Like fever. This is where possibilities both begin and end.
Quiet lanes where we invite our most vicious
Desires. We bid welcome and give them

Our best
               Only to be knocked
                                               Slackjawed.

We are, of course, too civilized to fly
Behind them brandishing a straight razor,
One hellbent parting kiss. Sharp lips
More intent on possession than passion.

Certainly we wouldn't
Give over to the desperate
Need to free
Our lifeblood from thankless veins.

Nor would we be so coarse as to make
A gift of our ear
To the village whore.
No matter that we've heard

The blatant sound of sunlight
Waltzing through an empty room.
Even after we've seen how
Our quest for the perfect

Light
           Will never be free from
                                               Shadows.