Sunday Evening
Foam, Fabric, Thread, Rice

if you can match the rhythm
and the desire,                                                  watch the tones sink to a deeper shade,
sense the diffusions,
feel the contractions.

ten feet sunken under,
cool, worn leather.
leaning over the sink
low enough to read the carpet weave.

sounds molded over form,
affections reclaimed by text.

don't make me retell it
ten times
last one

and so will I.