Curtal Sonnet

My eyes closed and my shoulder hunched
like bejeweled solitude,
a pen run out of ink and the cold slip of a missed-placed s,

hard as lust, a violin tremolo,

a clicking wound round my ear the massive growl
tight against my jaw--how the undead

measure God stackable as glass

how room for both whisper and hiss

a clicking, wound--this terrible lust

to know what it is to crave, to roam

searching.