Body that loves itself too much
Reflects desire in duplicate or triplicate
Spills passion on its opaque surfaces
Thickly, like a wet and sour fruit
Beneath the topmost tender layer of peel
Is doughy and pale, a valentine 
Of flesh it pierces with the blades
It makes itself, within a dark chamber
It inhabits alone, its walls an exterior
Mesothelium, licked swollen and pink
And caressed by breath, and warmed
By the kiss that, cyclically, recognizes
Then despises the taste of skin and salt
Too worn, too frayed, far too familiar:
Game in which the quarry evades forever