The proctologist tells me that the anus
is an exit, not an entrance.

What happened more than anything was a desire
for wholeness.

I kiss my lover’s hairline as it recedes with
the years, like I am consoling a shore—

I do not imagine gathering myself 
as sand along the waistband of his trunks,

like entropy, I do not imagine anything. 
I simply become. What my mother warned of:

the skin peeling like damp bandages
from the red apple, and 

what haven’t I held in my mouth
for love? I loved her. This body of fleas.