Speaking of a nature we could not imagine
I say to you, your skin
will never be party to anything brutal.
(I, on the other hand,
have shaken off all saintly beginnings
in favour of elevator doors
and crumpled sheets.
Control yourself. We will warm to these.)
Control yourself, we have a hand
in the future.
Though we are pieces sprinkled on a battlefield,
though we curse and scatter ourselves
across the bathroom floor,
we carefully map where the other lands
(and determine, loosely, borders);
we guide the missiles, we sound the warning
then spy for the other side.

Speaking of a nature no-one could imagine,
five floors up there is only your skin.
Control yourself, we will warm to these things,
balance ourselves for what is to come; our future
like a cuckold, hanging strangled from the moon.
Speaking of this, your thighs
in the dark make uneasy targets
for one who has no halo, for one without wings.