Only an overnight stop, I thought
as I thumbed through your books
and studied pictures on your wall
I was there, stop-framed

I sat at the table
You rested your hand on my shoulder
and later, your head on my chest
You touched water to my lips

You spilled a bottle of ink
on the sheet and mattress
It's dry now
it will never wash out

~ ~ ~

He Has His Little Song

being nice, being nice,
spend my whole life being nice
it's his affirmation
his wrestle with McEnroe–Rue Morgue–Leviathan

He senses a form of life who feel no pain
they're at his door
talk is air            text is squiggles

He goes to another place
where he could love you
like a professor loves a fresher
a squelch-up of need you, and please please me
Ahem, she says,
turns the page

Somewhere else, miles away,
a sparrow hawk flies close
The pattern of winged air
on his face

~ ~ ~