Bumping and grinding in the aquarium of desire,
who could be watching on the outside, tapping
a knuckle against the glass. Is it Death? Is it God?
Each vibration sends them fleeing, but they only
flock back to their favourite corners. They rub,
gasping with every suck and hold. Sometimes
the same lover is not enough. There are other fish
in our transparent sea. Look at how that lover
darts to another and another. The lento of intimacy
before the momentum of dissatisfaction picks up,
love’s invisible thread slackening, then jerking
taut again, trembling to a delicate hum. Nothing
lasts, the older ones say, those who are left alone
from betrayal or bad luck. Hear that tapping again.
Hurry. Slow down. But hurry. There is time to lose.
