Fuck Poem with Language from the Gospel of Mark

As it is written, a list of things we did not, and shall never do:
such as go elsewhere, into the next town where we were unknown
yet still beautiful as if I had not been sick with this lunatic fever
that I have had since you moved here. In the next town
we did not take a meager room behind the stables and the radio never spoke
the false promise of voluptuous days and I did not fill the bedside
table’s only drawer with Swedish sex toys and stolen bottles
of booze or offer you wine mixed with gaul. Your body never dripped
with wild honey and come, and you did not gird yourself
to the headboard with leather straps or blindfold me with silks.

I did not invade the Sudetenland of tan lines and razors,
and when you did not emerge naked and unshy from the lake,
your body did not appear to the astigmatic me as a tree,
or any other beautiful thing. Number me among the rheumatoid
and the infirm of heart. The next time you allow your fingers
to graze the hillocks of your own hip, the whole lovely parade,
you will learn why I speak in blasphemies. I need to put my fingers in
your wounds to believe, which is why I went to the lake’s edge
alone, and asked no one to follow. Instead, I spent night and day
crying out and bruising myself with slick, moss-covered stones.