I am a pig when I copulate.
It is difficult to be sincere while pigulating.
Always the ghost of my humanity polices my milky being like sties
in the edges of the eye. I am in love and it feels like flesh in flight.
When I am in the stinking spasm of love
swimming in a white mud pool of cupids that fill the creases of bodies
why is it that when I am in love
I feel as if I am visiting a memorial
and the tiny deformed frogs of war atrocities as if they were a special
kind of atrocity leap and swarm over other deformed frogs
at the bottom of the pool
and loss becomes mythical in scope like god
why is it that you are such a good person
in a swine world where persons are precarious
and I want to protect your humility from everything
and I need you to close your camel human eyes
while we tread thick water over the sea of radical frogs.
But I am not like that.
Doubt does not make
my love more saturated.
I can only give you a bit of pig mud
and sow love
from the bottom of my crate
and be disgusting.
I can’t give you a whole heart.
It is too late and I have heard things.
There is salt in the heart that rots,
there is only nakedness
and the torn muscle
and the waiting for gloved hands and the stunner,
the stunning speed of pig life,
and already the rot has taken hold
and the hungry rot eaters are stirring in their cell membranes.