(no subject)
The two lit lamps of four from a white ragged ceiling
displace
upon a glass table in the dining room
between newspapers
and a bowl of fruit
that will go uneaten;
my love and I not there.
The television reads to us
and we listen
as the new day backs its cold toes
under spoonfed bed and blanket holding,
and she says to me standing before the couch
where we had been laying,
"I'm going to bed."
I pull her back down with words for minutes embrace
and tell of greater words to be written while eyes closed;
she dreams painful brightness of morning-crept light
through the steel barred blinds
on either bedside.
She teases playful opposition and I smiling insist;
I follow her in half compromise to a pillow reading
where while listening
I stare at her lips.
I now sit steady
at or
with the word
and the gods of,
an ashtray of lonely ends
and a pack full of anxious lovers.
Sucking on a beer can
that sits next to a marble blade.
I in the dining room now
under the lit lamps
present
before.
I feel the closed door open to the bedroom
exiting the pouting lips
of
my
love.
"I can't sleep alone," she says.
As this poem is hers
who am I to cater to stifled dream?