MY SEX SONNET. By Chris Bosten.

He tells himself that which he feigns to know
A coil of strictures unearthed in nature’s flanks
Its secret art vibrates in muffled blows
His keeper stopped, caught cold in stymied banks
Her draw propels the flight, the distance made
The movement soars unsheathed by all it is
The slide is quick, the laws in turn degrade
A thief has come to steal and make it his
That stranger lives to thrash the reckless night
No thought of them remains to challenge him
His flex, his drain removes to rupturous might
and take its hold, no sight of what had been
The man departs as fast as he has come
Questions reign where none have been undone

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