We lepers stew in our pants. We cannot 

stand. They cannot stand to hear our plaints. We

sway. We sob on island colony... 

Wanting to, but doing not, so different

from. Wanting to touch, brushing the touching,

tender reeds pretending, faces blushing;

if sky were red so would the sea be. Beet

red cheeks, red meat, bled anomie concedes:

Sympathy is in the toilet, flushing. 

Touching, impossible; impossibly

deep needs crutching up the scarp to sight

the tiny schooner teased. Escape tonight,

the setting sun is anything but red, 

on ocean breeze we’ll strew our rude disease.