A warm bed isolated from job,
Country, and family—
Sometimes a kind of calm sex.
To be nowhere at once,
With no reactionary thumbs
Pressed into your eyes,
In the grand utilitarian blindspot
Of a room refreshed behind closed doors.
Sometimes one body, two
Heartbeats; sometimes
Two bodies, one heartbeat; and
Junk clothes enough for
Ten people sloppy as
De-spined stars on the floor.
Quilten camouflage. Bunker
Absorption of
Windowlight in a pillow. Smashed
To save the hush from
Being tagged by eyes and ears,
Though the racket they’re
Attached to
Combines a living face it would kiss.
Just fifteen minutes. Still and
Stripped to anonymity beneath
Three dozen covers. One
For each year put to rest.
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