~length of days~
They call it a return, an egotistic explosion—
something to be smelt, not touched
a softness
that mirrors
soft grazed sweet grasses,
a leftover waft, a whirr
attached to sighs and steam.
In confined sheets,
rain mimes woodpecker tongues two inches deep,
a pellet lingering in the cleft of your upper lip,
loosens my frame into angelic sleep, a jellied
drip expands the hips,
I am for the cosmos, ready for sleep.
Notes of a Dirty Young Woman 