I knew what I was about

stroking your lovely

neck in the perilously

brief

interval at the intersection of

desire, the real, and feminist

derring-do.

And if the intersection is three

or four points of variance,

divergence, diversion,

aversion, and hapless brief

interval

larger than the grid,

in dread of a walled corner,

a piano stool, a

contraband .38,

and that flip of an

eye eros,

oh, throat

I don’t do well with

expectation. Come up

here if it’s too cool a

story below with your

windows cracked.

Higher is warmer

in this last,

fast

phantasmic

interval.

You did say, need me less and I'll want you more.
I'm still shellshocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won't be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned
by wanting you so much it looks like need.