THE FLOW OF BLOOD.

1 Corinthians 13:13

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What is the correct answer 
to a hopeless confession
of love? I say: Thank you,
Goodbye. The truth is, I’ve lost faith 
in the tip of my tongue to perform either act.
I say nothing. I say: It’s all an act,

and the greatest of these is
held hostage by the right hand
of a gospel verse, a bible belt 
unbuckled and a bone abashedly beaten 
behind the oblivion of organic lust.
Nothing begotten,
why I never last:

Driving home through the night from the Outer Banks
my heart stopped on the interstate shoulder,
after so many wrong turns, over-
dosed, arrhythmic, rushed
to a rural Ohio hospital by siren sins

to piss out the amphetamines
with the burning thrills of my last love, 
the mountain thrusts of our bodies 
just that: Infectious, unholy,
ridden with it. On discharge, I pulled out 

the nasal cannula, the intravenous drip still
dripping as if preaching the perils 
of stimulants for a weak heart
full of water and thicker fluids. What remains

in the silence that comes
after admission? I say: That took too long.

I say: Love,
a euphemism for the end, hardened.

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