cabin fever

we fuck hard enough to knock
the himalayan pink salt lamp off
the bedside table, send the organic
lube and shea butter tumbling
onto the carpet. the salt lamp remains
intact, but we check only once
we’re finished. the lamp falls about
every other time. but we replace
it in the same spot. we are dutiful
with our ions. this is winter fucking—
it is frantic, too little heat then too
much, a desperate attempt to feel
like the day accomplished something.
we try new things. some of them work.
most don’t. the sweat freezes on our
noses, condensation turns ice
on the window. it is us against the cold—
the only way to prevent us against
us. february can turn anyone.
the snow would be beautiful
if there was just less. your skin
is too pink under salt light. the days
pile up like a drift in front of our door. 

(little start to somethin’)

drink from the pool
in my lap. use your
mouth or the tiny
vacancies at the
vertex of your eyes.
even your skin
will work. you are
more hole than
full. i am a mess
of leaky pipes.
the pool grows,
spills over folded
knees. tell me
my insides taste
like crunchy green
grapes or artichoke
hearts. something
original. you are
here to keep this
excess reasonable.