The Empty Bed

by Philip F. Clark

Kiss the bone of regret.
Make some kind of love to it,
poor shining armor of the once-tried,
thrice burned. Lie with snakes
in a swarm of skin — sweat here
against me fellow itinerant.
No hair-shirts for us
we sleep in the burn
of wish and desire,
the small turn of chance makes
our illiterate bed.
We twist in the glass,
we cut with a kiss
and blood is never less
than what we expected.