I sit in bed beside you, shearing,
Heating pad set to medium;
You say I couldn’t handle more.
You’re looking for work.
I’m reading about poets in
Meanwhile, your fingers ricochet
Like ants across the keyboard;
Pfizer has some jobs in La Jolla.
I don’t want to reach over and fuck you
Nor use my teeth to puncture your pliant neck,
How glorious to be at peace
Despite all the canned blue passion
Radiating my brain, our out-there gray
Lives, like the promise of snow.
Pain always produces logic, which is
very bad for you. That’s not my line
But it’s a good one and applies here;
Women are bred for pain, they’ve got it
In them. The trick is to realize not everyone
You think is a woman is, my friend. It is dark
Now. The weather report predicts snow overnight
And it is rare the weather report is wrong
Anymore. Four to six inches. This poem
Is about fucking. Or not fucking. Or refusing
To write in bedclothes