In Curls of Suspect Breaths and Mandarins – Sonnet Sixty-Three

In curls of suspect breaths and mandarins,  
The smells of balconies and tangerines,  
The cruel day becomes, that traps night in
A space where only life remains obscene.  

The bath salts, panties, mark these freckled stains,  
The fractured porcelain and turned out sheets,  
Morocco? Venice? Perth? or Coeur d'Alene?  
The shit and semen, sexly arts secrete.  
 
How flagstone baths and red-oaked paneled walls,  
Like naked rangers, in these lodges, thrust  
With force enough to make sequoia’s fall,  
In timber shouts and spouts of fluids rush.  
 
I do not know the way to cleanse these souls  
Except the wash of love that every space revolts.