It’ s too cold to smoke outside, but if you come over,
I’ ll keep my hands to myself, or won’ t I.
I would like to tell you about the wall eaten up
by the climbing plant — it was so beautiful.
Various things have been happening to me,
all of them sexual. The man on the bus
took off his pants so I could see him better.
Another man said, “Ignore him darlin’.
Just sit on my lap.” But I’ m not one of those
who’ s hungriest in the morning,
unlike the man at the bakery
who eats egg after egg after egg.
Listen. Come over: the cold has already eaten
the summer. I need another pair of ears:
from the kitchen I can’ t tell if I’ m hearing wind chimes
or some gray woman with failing arms
dropping a pan full of onions and potatoes.
This morning I need four hands —
two to wash the greens, one to lift a teakettle,
one to pour the milk. This morning, one little mouth
will not do. We could play a game
where we crouch on the tiles, two yellow dogs
drinking coffee from bowls. We could play a game
where we let the breakfast burn.
Outside there’ s a world where every love scene
begins with a man in a doorway;
he walks over to the woman and says “Open your mouth.”