Poetry & Prose

Little Rooms

There’s no stopping, I thought.

The world can change as you sleep.

Swing its hips and fling you off.


It helps if I think of

my leg, or just a muscle, tensing

to your shy start-and-stop.

Anything happens, but

the most intimate thoughts

are in time-broken sleep.


The night hazy with our thoughts,

clustered in sleepy mouths.

Even mine are yours.


Tripping over you

and half-collapsed tents of thought,

I’m hunched over and tense

at the bowl, the only stop to sleep.


This wasn’t supposed to be about you.

I have other thoughts,

and I can stop


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