I am the distant argument
where teethed snores meet,
shadowed over by eight planets
of dead wicker lamps.
I am the shivering signals of
skin, shawled by a shared
and lecherous sheet.
I am not like linen shot
through the gaps of private glass
but the growl of an
uneven stomach, where
a predator mauled its lithe
flesh out, its warmth left
like a...