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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