i love you,
like dried blood cakes a nostril
anymore.
is there a law against that too?
for a sample of your minky skin,
armadas have gone aground
and trained assassins
have turned their daggers on themselves.
a chained dog,
wracked by impulses,
helplessly sensing
a focused approximation
of everything —
looking at your body,
forensic toxicologists
scratch their heads
and step outside
for a much-needed smoke.