“The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.” ― T.S. Eliot, Murder at the Cathedral

I have accumulated much, living this life:
gadgets, garments, souvenirs of a desire
briefly sated, denied, unrelenting.

The clutter spills out of drawers, closets;
Ideas, most unworkable, fall from my ears:
I can hardly hear the wails all around me.

I know who is behind these murders. What am I
to do? I love you. If there is a point to all
this scheming, it ends where your lips begin.

I should like to stop the horror and climb your body
to that spot where all is pure sensation. Nothing
to interrupt us, neither to-dos nor concern for others.

But the horror never stops. Still, rocking back and forth,
we soothe it for a moment; and in that respite, like
St Augustine, we ask the dead to make us chaste–just not yet.