Polluted by America and its delusional prudes,
he had largely failed in the requisite adolescent project
of self-purification, of learning to have sex without love,
for to him love came so frequently and so effortlessly
that to banish it even momentarily was as difficult
as chasing away a favorite dog:  it would be fine
to have no dog, to be loveless, but to deny it
after the fact felt like violence against himself.
But it isn't real, he reminded himself,
or not very real.  And the energetic compassion
of bodies is as real as anything ever.
He cursed the infectious fantasies of his people.
Worse than materialism, worse than God,
was the necessity of love.  Love, a mere sensation
as surely as any tactile interference.