Only a literalist at loving would expect to plug ahead like the highway people’s line machine, straight over hill and dale, unwavering and ready, in a single stripe of kiss and covering, steady on
“I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.”