Poetry

How I hate you tonight!
I tick off
the bumps on your back,
your hangnails, the acid

I watch the point of the twirling stick
Where you are sleeping, where you will come again.

It’s a routine we’ve worked out
to pass the winter.
I saw myself in two, in three,
into a puzzle,

They are not
imaginary but
accessible only
intermittently.

It’s taken everything to bring them here: 
the peaches, grapes, oysters, the goblet of 
wine, the table & cloth. 

The water level
comes up when
you throw in
stones, bricks…

Is it rude to tell men you don’t
            love them just the idea of them

The mind 
likes the squeeze 
of chutes and channels.