My friend Jo Pilgrim
understands
that this copulation
this imagining of it
this willing it into being
whether on paper alone or on
bedsheets
on the fabric of reality
no more constitutes adultery
committed
against loved ones and
promises
than defecation, or indeed
any of the
biological inevitabilities,
the work that our bodies
must do to be
and by which we might mark
the passage of time.
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