What Molly told the room

Here is how things are. Know
nothing is if it is not here.
The textures grow textures on their own
as they are known to do.
God said let, so nothing is alone.
Pretty comfortable. Hot, too.
What with all this busy motion
I wish my skin was a carpet
all the mammals would sleep on
sneaking little murders here, there.
And how everybody is good food.
The inviting grass. Look up, grubs,
at the feet you can’t hold in
your hands like you’re holding
the first face you blushed at moaning.
Weren’t you shaking with it.
And young, and unknowing.
The inviting grass sprouts spring dresses.
Voyeurs in the weather applauded
thereafter your every smaller spasm,
was dry then not like your lap
the seat of sap, or hydraulic oven.
Run away inside where you shouldn’t be
if you have legs to run away with,
the legs that give music to the ground.
It is thunder and rain, loud and needy.
The second body growing out of
my first body doesn’t fret
that the world’s about to get wet.
I needed a bath. I needed some response
whether from my yawning
or the years-old deathbed I could just
laugh at and cuddle up on right now.
I’ll make sure it fits two.
We’ll flip the mattress over every few
weeks, teach it how to sing loud.

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~ by Jeremy on November 21, 2011.

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