April 9

Sneaky Feelings

The sex is pleasant. It's the metronome
precision of it that's the problem. It's
as if he has the blueprints of a home
and builds it nightly so your body fits
around it like surgical gauze to a wound
applied by competent and plying fingers
that play your body like a cold untuned
piano, again, again, as the sound lingers
in the hall as empty as a galleon wrecked
a century ago. It's no surprise
that as he snores bouquets of dust collect
obscenely in the corners of his eyes.
He is a minaret, a dry sea-shell,
the colossus you preferred to Ariel.