in the hall for singing well
that's not really a choice
then is it she said
into the phone (I had never
met her or her still songs)
God, the bookshelves
stacked & stooping
God, the poet's bare thighs empty
fuck the heavy knuckles of sleep,
sick time, floor boards,
driving cloud over the well
with screws no pictures
hanging no condensation
to boot, street mats
stock boys & my sisters' bathing suits
flung off & my brothers' inner tubes
wrapped up send my baby off
in reeds send him off
to meet the queen
I want to be the queen
or fuck to sleep
or fuck to walk
together down the dark hall
to the door at the end of the hall
& say father, what son
& say mother, what daughter
& then out of the fluid dream
to feel your arm, sliding firm
to wake me up again
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