You, Man, are disgusted with the definition of the word,
exhausted beyond reason from its sly-induced weight and charm.
She casts ashore from a wooden hull to rape and pillage-
substantive hovels with nothing to add but an apostrophe, a check-
a footnote on the manuscripts of testosterone-soured ink,
brown and curled in your stomach like last weeks rejection letter.
As a definition, she says nothing you have not heard before,
sliding without notice to permeate your every thought and breath.
The word is old and decrepit, crackled and dry.
She finds your chinks and digs in with forensic fingertips,
forceps cauterized and cleaned with sterile politeness that bring rustic clouds,
slamming shut storm cellars hinging on proper behavior.
Word has taken her seat next to food and to water as inevitable,
holding court over the passive nature of all men.
You, Man, cannot release her in your desire, nor be free of her
as she is nothing if not wild in the sudden squall.
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