• Swimming
    in a low bed
    Your hair was a fillagree net
    floating about your face
    What brunette cage to clothe the youth.

    Shivering
    in a low bed
    I fingered my shotgun,
    oil-clean, precious-hated
    sitting on the couch
    the droplets still mourning,
    Falling off your skin as we rose
    Like one - memories of being conjoined

    Staring
    in a low bed
    you were the wanton water-cat, coveted
    I embraced my gun close to my chest
    could here the one-two time of my heart
    through the curtains, the song
    of the ice cream truck. Eleven AM on a Sunday.
    I don't sleep here any more.