You are as immediate

and abstracted as a hooker's tongue.

In the gas station,

after the bars close,

your supple convenience,

the red-yellow plastic

glare of your packaging

seduce me.

I will pay $4.34.

A sinewy wistfulness

overcomes me.

What were you

before I gnawed you?

A maimed deity?

A slaughterhouse's daydream?