The end of the affair is always death.
She's
my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am
fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now
she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her
like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount
her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I
marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that
every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath,
above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and
pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I
break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put
the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My
little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the
bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising
on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a
flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At
night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women
takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone
breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper
says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The
boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip
flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The
glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other.
They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.