Perhaps it's the getting that is like
telling me a hot note and so tell me
the quickening in your thighs is the
only heat you feel for tea and
conversation about books or some
new poem you found in some
third floor bookstore book that
smelled like must and mites and old
wood and sliding ladder grease and there
was surely some elbow patch yellow
patchouli gradschool cock treading water
nearby trying not to grab himself right
there in the narrow aisles between the shelves
between the shelves
between the shelves between the
sheets I've come so many lives and
so many days to know the real
story about you in real
life don't
ruin it now
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