Answer

Would, then, sleep be
answer or result?

To ensoul the exhausted,

to enter one slothful body
after another

where I see your
legs through your shift

but little of the else of you.

How firmly the answer
closes its eyes so as

to elude what I'd insert. Sleep
seeps out, saline and vague,

where as the result turns round
with certain fingers to pry open

the eye and the leg. One after

another, doped and transparent,

are those who want so little, who
shorten the shrift of you. To whom

does one show one's fingers, to what
larger fluid spirit does the act of

opening complete? Horde them all up,
then, the corpus, the plural else. See that

you do goggle and whose digits I pull out of
the gist of you, muslin haste, sheer

trade where the result is a mouth, of course,
gagging delicately. The mouth that surely

forces you to dilate, sleeper, my soft
burr of possession.

 

 

 

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