this is how it goes: we sat in the blue grey
and i licked your nose, nostrils twitching
like cats: whiskered fuckers
lapping at my milk. you pulled the sheets
from my breasts and climbed
inside me, like we are some grand city —
what did i call it? the sex life of the century
resurrected between your hands
and my getting up, leaving — stop, stop
i’m going to be late;
saturday mornings we are nicer, late
fuzzy sunbeams hitting the counter,
the friday-old wine glasses and the pancakes
sizzling and hitting, your hand behind me
inside me, stop it’s burning, stop. you stupid
fuck, i’m talking about the oven —
you put kisses on my face, and i
caramelize.
i want to remind you: i am a good person
we are all good people;
so we say, as the world explodes.
the more i talk about this, the less sacred
it becomes, and yet
i don’t care; i am drinking alone alone
waiting for the climb, the rise
the eventual sad defeat.
the last pavilion 