Sitting here on his shoulders
Like a little child,

I can see over the heads of the crowd,
The hay bales and pumpkins,
And my troubles.

My spirit is lifted by this new and great height
And I am utterly free.

Hang loosely from your frame:
Long, lean, exquisite.

Holes in the knees
Match the holes in your heart
And in mine: bored through by those we meet
With the sweetest pain.

What do you keep in your pockets?
Portable property-do you value it as Mr. Jaggers's clerk did?

I know you have two faces, as did he.
In your castle you are serene, affectionate.
Here you have Wemmick's letter-box mouth
And reveal none of what you feel.

Brings a feeling of helplessness
And all of the leftover Christmas cookies
Are not satisfying but cloying.

Our bovine grazing leaves the kitchen ravaged
And our stomachs are overfull
But still we eat,
Finding ourselves only hungrier.

Our minds, our senses, need refreshment
And our desperate starving spirits moan ceaselessly.

Our skin is pallid
And desiccated by the artificial heat.
The sun hasn't shone for days.

To where may we escape?

Yours is extraordinarily beautiful.
It's rhythmic like the movement of the sea and
Reassures me of the endlessness,
The ceaseless calm of the world we've created
Here in our embrace.

Mine is far more painful
And my exhausted lungs sound
Like the wheezing old engine of our '83 Chevy
As I lay here
Surrounded by electronics meant to preserve my life
That will only destroy my spirit.

Tonight envelops your spindly frame.

Dark forest-green wool,
It is softer than velvet
Against your moon-pale skin.

Such a merry garment
Welcomes the onset of
Autumn, a most idyllic season.

So **** the stars.

Your form too elegant for words,
You are draped across the floor, reposing

And she springs upon you,
Leopardlike,
As she did before
And she robs you of your very essence.

I, the observer,
Am stricken with immeasurable pain on your behalf
And I shed tears of desperation
Which form a puddle at your feet.

The carpeting under your reclining form
Is stained with ink from an old-style fountain pen
And the prints of innumerable tired aching feet
Encased in sullied boots.

You are marred by nothing,
Your kiss cool and fresh, sweet, floral, clean.

Your small white hands
Explore a thread
That has escaped from a pair of old jeans-
Worn every day, rarely washed,
the pockets full of coins, lint, gum wrappers.

I take a drag off this cigarette
And contemplate how close I am in identity with it,
How I fit the mold perfectly and take no chances.
I am a case study in consistency

And you,
Dearest,
Are like nothing else
And second to none.