AFTER A DAY WE STAY IN BED UNTIL
THE SUN IS CLOSE TO SETTING
He drives home thru the black trees with a poem about me that will make him famous starting in his fingers. He wishes the wheel was his Olympia typewriter. He needs to get my hair where he can touch it on the long drive thru the pine trees, my musk still drenching the car. I want to read this poem almost as much, dazed, the night's performance has sucked me flat and pale as an empty sheet of non erasable bond, has pulled all color, all the wet moist verbs out the way he took the stories I told and made them in to his own surreal dreams. Even my leaves and branches became the green arms of a child. My mouth is dry, I need to have his poem where my clove nipples press into his blue striped cotton smelling of sun and wind in the pine trees, a mirror that will reflect my dark eyes. I need this as much as he needs to invent me to become himself.