Mean Time

 home

Sleeping

Your mouth is hot fruit, wet, strange,
night-fruit I taste with my opening mouth;
my eyes closed.

You, you.  Your breath flares into fervent words
which explode in my head.  Then you ask, push,
for an answer.

And this is how we sleep.  You're in now, hard,
demanding; so I dream more fiercely, dream
till it hurts

that this is for real, yes, I feel it.
When you hear me, you hold on tight, frantic,
as if we were drowning.