Insecticide #14

The rush of cold water
running through me;
the heat of my blood
running through me.

And death,
with her hells,
waits for me.

But I have received
the sacred kiss,
and I do not dismiss
the poverty of my condition.

Rich.

Love is a cold bath.
And I have waited
decades for this revelation.

Pour out on me,
in measure I can
understand; and bear.

Then drop my flesh
deep into the pools
of your dismissal.

And I will breathe
unpolluted air.

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