the house is quiet the light is bedside
warm outside the sound is barely of
chimes (i can hear) i can feel the hot
coil of your leg snaring the almost not
groan of the big room is dusty with the
whisker of a cat shifts your hips (into
my hips) inching slumber deeply into
heat of closeness to body white and
shoulders cut curved of alabaster
grooving into the pale basin of your
chest at the base end of your neat neck
almost like talcum like light powder of
dusting the immense club of sleep is
your wrists are a tiny potion of
thousands of years of silence only to
live through 23 years a girl sleeping
enormously the room doesn't change
doesn't move barely a bit or budge
even more than slightly than a mote at
a time (4:00am) i kiss i cull i cup your
shoulders drinking the burning wine
of your heaped hips into mine
knowing someday you will be dead.