Tell me
more;

about the
bed,
and the soft
sheets crumpled
at the bottom of
the mattress.

The pillows stained and
sunken,

the broken frame
and
scratched up
wooden floor:

Is there thirst?
And as for
windowpanes, they
should be
rattled by the
soft brown wind
of an amber
sunrise, or sunset,

the end of day or
beginning is time
for goose pimples
and short breath.

Why now?  or ever?
Let the voice of
flesh
be
crimson through
wakened eyes,

the first graced
fingertip inquisitive
and a deepened inhalation,
sharp--
percussive and
deliberate.

Let brow be downturned
and neck twisted,
back arched and
feet grasping,

Push.

Push and
I can smell your
mouth now
and
let dim eyes meet
in
furious
glance.

There is challenge,
anger and
power.

Let clutched fingers
strain to
find,

let hands grip beyond
like in fists,
clutch with all
life and
fingernails dig into
palms and

let limbs be
broken and body
crushed,
wrapped into
form for
ingestion.