No clothes on and palpitating gently, what am I
      doing alone from you in this room, in this town
      at the bright and ancient forest’s edge?
Too much artificial pine scent in my middle third,
      too much moth damage.
Wish to find your breathing the more important again.
Wish for its wavelengths and velocity near.
Distance is not passion-hostile but I want for you
      like a crystal chandelier wants for the wind,
      like sleep wants itself, my mind gumming up
      like paint around the rim of the can;
      I would rub myself across all the infertile
      topsoil of the earth, I could force
      out all new teeth for you.
Instead there is chatshow gameshow cell divisions
      and overtime pining in the yard, my mouth
      ulcers organised into a crop;
      there are idioms and courtly tropes plus
      booking confirmation, and what scanty energy
      wanting leaves is offset by the memory
      of a stale thousand hours stirring
      an office with an ergonomic chair.
O to be in yearning.
To be denied access to your warm mass and matter
      excelling itself, such better human moveables
      to gnaw my living time upon.
To yet be in yearning still.
To yet be in yearning out here as if stationary 
      I am still driving a large structure or apparatus,
      a piece of medieval siege equipment across
      the ashed out landscape of a cruel dukedom
      on only a diet of cotton and curd.
My body is hot. You are far. And I am stuck
      in the shallows of a faint churning star,
      no voice or touch to fuck with, only a notion
      of you, further from here than the Atlantic
      Ocean which is also too much to conceive
      of when considered all at once.