Biological

I’m afraid it’s biological.
Because there is no way to explain
Why I shut the door before
Burying my greedy nose
In the collars of his clothes,

And why, when I smell his skull,
The urgent advice of my reptile brain
Is to pull his bad old body closer
And make babies.

The heart,
The heart is nothing.
Hack it out, you’re good
And dead.

It’s harder to sort cell by cell,
To quell every little fire
To tell every little pair of hands
To obey, to behave
And go about your business
As if you weren’t enslaved by them

As if you weren’t simply
The descendant of some mad impulse
Encoded by the same passions of
Every other fool that came before.