The first infidelity is the worst,
from which all others flow
like the milk of might-as-well.


Why not? first lifts us up,
then dashes us
on the rocks of if-only.


"Why not?" say the bored,
leaning over the beckoning sea
--and let go.


Why not? is in the eyes
of the eaten-alive by the need
to be anything but what they are.


The damned are walking among us,
eating out of the same bowls.
Soiled


sheet by soiled sheet
they lie beside us
in our very arms, murmuring,


Why not? Why not? Oh, why not?