No, shut those blinds. I’d rather not
be shown the evening star.
Venus? We knew her well. She used
to fuse us in her stare.
But she is still herself, and we
are not the two we were.
Give me lamplight from the guttering
bulb. Let love now mean
me recycling fluids, you
mired in your magazine,
till I slip through these catheters
mid-paragraph, unseen.