At first, our unconvertability

Was so we might both be safe,

Then so we might believe

In our own small worlds,

We surrounded ourselves

In a fortress of the flesh

Interrupting the corporeal heat

That sustains the body,

As if containing a rosebush’s roots

In a summer thicket

In the process, an abyss of the flesh

Opened between us,

But against this treachery

We had no guarantee

Powerless,

Face to face, we scratched

One another's skin with our nails

Recording a riotous era

That reeked of decay 

Upon my chest of Moroccan leather,

A young boy laid his golden cheek,

And though he wounded me

With one arrow after another

Making my heart send up

A fountain of blood,

I continued to survive

For many days hence

And because of our words of love,

We find ourselves unable

To accomplish our raw, pitiable project

Of transforming into one another