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8/8/03
In the bedroom
The covers lay in a wave of silent motion
The fans blow the shadows like a quilt
of indigo flies on the wall.
It is here
Books are worn like lingerie
and music, like satisfaction.
Leaning against the
wall
One can feel the room tilt and slowly,
drop by drop,
trickle to the bottom of the ocean;
fallen from a torrent of languorous smiles.
The television drones
from the living room
Like a child wanting attention,
And here I sit knitting like a spinster
And there you sit, quiet like a dreamer.
