You can't feel it with your hands.
In your tooth tips,
lips,
wrenching the complaints like jagpipes
to your glasses, a broken tune.
And only across the room.
Amok we go to the morning bakery.
Amok I feel you below the blanket.
A teddy bear beneath your elbow
is no way to live.
The slug's slimy purpose, now compare:
favorable in singularity, but grand totaled
it's hardly worth the metrics.
My god, all that time punching the pillow.
Frumping and rosecheeks.
All that anger mistaken
for health.
A saran-wrap crumpled nose.
Who knows?
I sometimes have those thoughts.
A remarkable, unerring diligence.
But then we have sex and shortly thereafter,
I am free.