There are only so many tasks
I can accomplish today,
But only today
Am I faced with these limits.
Pray to seven Gods,
Make love to three women,
Posit two singular ideas,
Snuff the willing lungs
Of one summer night.
But I must conserve if I can,
For strength has a habit of
Falling away, often,
To laughter, when one,
As myself, is confined
To a number of tasks
In an otherwise meaningless day.
I will, if I can, make love
To a Goddess while huffing
The wind of a summer night.
Alas, that is but one idea.
I am drained by the notion
Of loving while praying.
Tomorrow—there shall be six
Gods at my door,
Canting in response
To my unintentional silence.
And I, I will be swallowing still
The summer night
Caught inside my throbbing throat.

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