look i'm thinking it should be
something like a sitcom, 'cause
you're funny and shit and i
really wouldn't want to kill that too

like, i'll barge into the room and
demand the sandwich you were supposed
to already know i wanted, then you
will throw a frying pan at me
and i'll call you a crazy bitch

it will be perfect and these mornings
of me waking up on your stomach
like i am part of a painting, like i am
not supposed to move, these will all be
secrets we will forget about, or keep
sticky between the sheets you will
wash clean

or maybe we will be conventional and you
will pick out the fruit i never eat
when we go out to get groceries
or when you decide it is time to get plants.

i will get you a ring and you will wear
beige cardigans like a Mrs. Something
and the image of your naked breasts
covered by your waist-long hair and
the way you wake me when you kiss me
on the palms of my hands and barely on, that will
all remain hidden behind delicately-lit
portraits in our livingroom

then you will be my wife and i will keep you forever
because when i wake up in the middle of the night
and i see you sleeping like a thunderstorm like
a young sinner i molded for myself and only
i know this can't last long, because dreams never do

here is your ring here is your side of the bed:
these are private words addressed to you in public
(like forever stay with your hyperuranic figure on me)
(like forever leave me with my mouth tangled in your hair)

like (speak now or)
forever hold your peace

Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball