Nothing is more tragic
than soundless sex.

An unspoken devotion
to an unseen pain

curtails our acquaintance
unlike sure hands

on hips and sweat
with eyes locked.

Or a crooked kiss
that applies no tenderness

and feels rather like Judas
in Gethsemane.

Somewhere inside
there is a hiding place

with a frayed rope ladder
pulled to the floor.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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