I doubt it.
Madness is a factor,
entirely. Insert
a fanciful implant
here, she is years
ahead, oblivious
to minor elevations.
Which wife, which one?
No stepping forward
in the dark
succumbs
to quietude. Having
been hurt quite early
on, a hand
is five razors,
a kiss
strychnine on a bun.
Love is a tarantula
caressing my hairless spine
with tender manipulations
of fear, dexterous
leaps, reaches into my mouth
and enters, like an olive.
I name her wounded,
for that will carry fog
ahead to watch
for Aqua. Implore
the mandible
to retreat. It
salivates real nectar,
dripping granite.
If toads should walk
across my cradle,
I would rip
the stuffed eye from
my malleable bear.
Hear her, hear!
She quivers in a second
altered bed
from mine, inconceivable,
dry, inopportune, languid
forever where
no man or word will
have her.
Todd Swift 
