torn labels

( a
making love in a stone oven on
warm cellar nights. th bread rises. bacteria gather. no proof
of skin. honey
abrasions – th’attraction of sleepless bees
to a baker’s bare hands.

so winding th pinot stairs, grape stains on
our ankles, 

senses stifled by humidity. satellites spin
at a phonograph’s pace. see on nights like these
our children stab footsteps
to hush th creak of lovers’ floorboards. so they

can sleep
and hang smiles from klimt         [ th crack of pool balls ] hush

            we won’t exceed th sizes
            of our stomachs, nor question
            th magnitude of constellations. when
            our legs touch in endless
            thread count yet sleep
            separate, mindless and warm. 

( b
on sunday mornings,

breast feed me
butter
and champagne;

            be my mother
            all at once;

cook with olive oil
and sea salt;  

            th'asparagus is crisp,
            and i will serve you tonight.               

# posted by hardyf : 10:14