The bed a wreck of first coupling,
And morning shadow
Slipped dishabille around you.
You would sleep,
Eyes tracing some trigonometry of dreams,
What nervous sculptures
Would we chisel
With bare hands from flesh?
What equations of synaptic import
Would we resolve
With tangled tongues and skin?
What middle kingdom of the heart
Would we frame in
With rough lumber and desire
For mutual habitation?
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