Blunt Force Trauma

Feet flush with floor, 

we are simply what we are 

seeing.  This is my charge.

I am an easy sucker for the girl 

in the plaid dress, though when 

pressed I prefer the plain T.

In the rustle of removal, 

already lying down, there 

is the generation of static.

There is the laying naked, 

with little.  And undressed, 

its interest is duress.  It is 

the formulaic gesture, often as 

conspicuous in its aims as never 

it seems to be in its manner.

Where were we really, those times 

our teeth clipped.  We awoke 

with our heads approximate. There 

was the naked laying truth.  And then

there we were, white as flour.  

Appropriate as the night is long.

Ready for weather and noses

cold from some impossible draft,

such as is this some days, I seem

to remember one faint, dark thread

come up from the sheet.  It was

nothing against your hair.