Desire can be an inconvenient thing,
That strikes in unexpected afternoons,
Whose sun and scents remind one of the spring,
That metamorphoses into monsoon–

Periphery consolidates into
A self-perpetuating lustiness
Which manifests in focusing one’s view
In ways that manners say should be repressed.

But I have the advantage, so it seems,
Of walking through the world without a sign
Of what is going on within my jeans,
The secret fire whose burn is only mine,

I smolder ’til at liberty for action.
Delay shall serve to heighten satisfaction.