I do not wander, not have I
Slept and rolled
O'er the nights in my bed, in my mouth,
Thoughts of instinctive delight of other beds,
Of other hands.
What next shall we deny ourselves?
Blissful incompetence - a mediocre understanding of an afternoon
So solemn in guilt
Of what we have or have not done.
For the past hears the future under your electric voice and eyes that delight me not.
Excite me not.
To learn, to yearn, to sleep under trees and under sheets.
But in your sheets I am absent.
In these trees I do sleep.
And do I dream?

Thine own dreams shall dreamers be,
And enlist in the tides of mockery.