Notes to a Potential Lover

 

You might seek my perfume;

Trail your nostrils, breath hot,

Up the skin of my arm -

You crave my softer scents,

But smell just hollow bone.

 

I am a well-thumbed book-

Much borrowed, much returned;

Desire to embrace my

Solidity, but grasp

Only a vanished form.

 

You cannot claim my heart,

Savaged, removed, dripping;

Cold on a butchers hook.

You will find yourself lost,

Guide-less in the tundra.