We spoke, two mirrors facing one another,
“shovel straight to the heart.”
I slept in a bow tie for a week straight
to see if my dreams could become more proper.
I wrote a paper in your bed entitled “Where Light Leads.”
You said it is behind us, spiraling and oscillating.
The last time you used the word oscillating
was to describe a Haitian painting of a wedding dinner.
The floor was checkered cream and crimson.
I wanted to lick the characters into floating existence. Those idle speculations
about the disciplinary system of Santa Claus
or the polytheistic nature of culture
made me tap on a hollow log to see if insects would emerge.
I referred to the bedroom as the room with angles.
Which was wrong of me
I'd like to remove that statement
right now. Call it a volatile vertex, or urgent intimacy. No room
deserves measurement if it contains rays of desire.
Don't end on desire.