To Hell There's an old story of Satan, propelled to hell, fueled by his lover's voice (God) Echoing: "To hell!" And I want what I cannot have A kiss, a lover's embrace 'If I can't be a hawk, then let me be consort to a hawk' And she thinks of another man's embrace strong, capable hands that tear steel, rend mountains My feeble hands are small they do little, but they are mine. they mold the steam that rises off another's body that radiates the heat from the friction of another's touch And I stand and wait for the heat to gather to mold myself a false lover and again every night and again and again I inhale her smoke and ask for another a story of her life Running She has fallen, a hunters prize, limp form in clenched palm, fingers wrapped like a feral thing feeding And I say, 'Take me! Take me! But I am a small thing incapable of drawing notice a gatherer of smoke, of doppelgangers and lust A dream: we walk hand in hand a bloodstained forehead I see redly This hand in mine comforts, a mother's voice an afternoon of satience Then you leave me, a thing alone my body curled against the hurt My lover's voice saying: "Endure!"