These days, my mind for
you, is
less some filthy
zoo, than it is—a suite
of comfortably cluttered rooms
that I've simply
owned for far
too long
to ever
contemplate redesigning;
and where you
and I casually
recline and talk
of lots of
ordinary things together—
which we usually
do for an hour
or two daily,
with extended visiting
opportunities on weekends.
But isn't it stimulating? how
every increasingly
intimate detail
which I can
recall about you
now—still
presupposes the way
you look
in
my mind—when you're
sprawled-
out on its furniture.
