Seven And Thirty Seven Years

And wake up as dry as a book, I

am a hat on the hook beside

and above the bedpost not far

to reach and never forgotten

for long unless you're breathing

through someone else blanketing

them with your leather and your

meat, hands fighting like dogs in

some forever confused battling

waltz whose music is gasping

intercourse and whose conductor is

an animal in your skin who let a

book seduce who let knuckles

cow you who let fingernails

mark you who let spit

scour you who let some

gull feather elevate you to

the most incredibly fleeting

nowhere until you were back

somewhere and with me

here

under a hat

breathing heavily