Grey Sheets
The sheer ferocity with which I
left the bed cracked
your mouth like a whip:
the room was the salt flat
duckboard of a jetty
down the which I pounded,
punching a hole in twilight.
What if I kicked
the grey sheets of your body?
You'd been leaking secretly
since the original slam
of our argument. We even met
by accident. I was fresh out
of the empty penitence
you kept in a bedside box:
I dived through a slice of dusk
into a pool of cool
air, as smart as a lash,
while you lay there punctured:
nothing to grab at
but my stain, formaldehyde.