This morning I come into your hotbox
to lick your sweat,
to wake you.
I come here,
it's warm, bare, smooth, small
yet feeling-seeming cavernous,
to play with feelings,
to chew your hair until it's short,
to wake you.
Tonight I will go into your place,
the place you only let me go,
while you're half-drunk and
feeling amorous and generous.
Your good looks will not
set your free,
the way they set you free with everyone else.
Your solid body will not
wriggle away from my
terrible grip.
Afterwards:
we'll collapse asleep,
you'll feel the pain begin to ease,
and, finally, a dream.
-You see me in white,
my skin, face, hair, heart, all white.
You are a strong green.
You give me what I scream for
in the middle of my sleep.
(Only you know what I scream for.)
You give until I cry out.
There you pause and then resume,
because, although you're green,
you have to give it to me.
Although you're green,
you have none of that to give.
I muffle my crying. I wouldn't want
to wake you.
At ten,
it's bright;
it's time for me to go.
But, I need
one
final
lust snap.
So I whisper into your mouth;
my hot breath stirs you.
I start to suck away
all your air
to scare you
to wake you.