“The eventual heat death of the universe that scientists love to talk about is already well underway…”–Don DeLillo, White Noise At the bottom of the

Let me brush my lipsgentle over the base of your throat,turn my tongue at your collarand caress your cheekwith the fingertips of my desire Let me

I stroked her stomach and thought of all the things I didn’t want to do that day. She lay, stroked my fingers, and did the

Proskelyte¹ I see your thighs, the dusky patch between, dark fires ignited, promising. I see your ankles, alabaster white and beautiful, pressed against me, stroking.