it's not lather, it's that soapy
feel of yr skin peeling off. it's
chemicals & ice ages creeping
down from the hills. it's
barabrism & the crusades
unended & sublime & un
ended. it's the deli girl's ass
rolling on yr carpet while
you sing, she's a lady, &
she screams how cold it
all is. we will take pictures.
and
in the morning, we'll put
on our clothes, drag our
sky hooks through the universe
because the world was never
enough. she will come back
saying you do a good tom
jones & everything will multiply
& divide in layers upon layers &
she'll tell you about her kids &
ex-husband while you wave yr
gun around & drink.