A man hovers over lovers like a sightless ghost.
He’s the subject of a love song,
remodelled inside bodies, drowsy from suicide.
He questions pleasured victims in a room full of sex.
He confuses honesty with cum.
His thoughts are connubial while he pummels marrow.
He chokes, disengaged from seizures, a bony piston.
Internal organs oppose him; he’s gripped.
This is bedchamber rehab, and his tongue is bare from the aftertaste.