You know he only calls when his body 
wants–a deal you make. Believe him
when he gives so little of himself to you.
It’s all he has left in this modern age: a whiff
of smoke and the beast of him, horns gleaming
in halogen. It’s like the end of something,
in a way. So much mood and drama.
Maybe the candle wants to be winnowed

down, wax pearling off its slickenside like
so much perspiration–the heat expressing
itself: need in a physical form.
When you leave you both feel unredeemed.