Wake from the dream
where I lick your toes
each until your alarm
goes off to go to work, eyelids droop.
I can't have forgotten.
Mouth dry, awake at 12:31 A.M.
on fire.
The kitchen in order and your car locked.
Not Friday. Saturday. Sniff
your hair trailing over the sofa arm.
Tell the difference.
Song of the stereo still playing
in the dream background,
the real crash in window shard sliver.
The slaughter houses we march
after well rounded breakfast.
Wake with a second pinch
to rinsing a shaver and huff polish
a mirror with bare elbow so that
you can see, held right,
the flipped image
of what I shaved into your hips.
You are seeing a breeze on the brush.
Let me lick my thumb!
We are going to be rich.
Can I say hello? Once. Every year.
Darling, golden, purr.
Purr and hum. The track's song. Fault lines.
