never to be unraveled from position
at breakfast
after she's felt she had
to make so much
and all I want is her, in the morning birch;
after lunch
when the summer sausage
drips down like summer wind, I
drink beer and buzz and want her
as the wren flies
into the tent of the pine,
misses because his eyes
blur, and break, not blind.
At dinner, I think she
wants me, we look
together
at the news like
a large variety of the heart,
our minds lost in the general world despair.
At bedtime, it is always, or some,
her wine, her pills, the book she reads;
I've found ways to read her headache, she's
finding ways to read my lust.
''I'm just settling into valium, dear."
Now myself, sir,
I've had four pills twice as strong (or is it half?)
and want to slip my arms around her thighs and breasts.
Her body is better than any pill. I am a body person.
"Can't you see, I'm reading this book? Jesus, my
glasses are still on!"
Slipping my 14 books
and sixty papers to paw and mark and grade
for the next day's class, away,
I don't see how she sees the dull night.
Together, we are better than print.
"You always just want to stick it in. Men."
"It's an expression."
"An expression all right."
She looks over, to see if I will; I don't, try
and won't. She does nothing. We lie flat.
"It
won't matter if I lie here two years, holding you,
but everything at rest."
"Try it."
