that room is for incubation, the growth
of ripened flesh, porous—none of us could bear the heat
For we, the skinny and winding who populate the colder
halls, confused without the steady radio noise under the
tall sails of ceiling, shuffle hard and pinkish
adrift: the poetry on the walls, losing papers,
finding more under our translucent skin
In order to eat, piss we must pass the Room, listen
to the heady conversations
We wanted to talk like that, but the room stays
sealed and we are always
short of breath We would have broken down
the door long ago but for the unspoken law that keep us
giddy in the hallways, racked with bones
or more, like lonely children, it's
The Rumors of the Hook-Up Scenes
which tempt us each week inspire in us the
will to write to each other Once the
lights went down and we crowded
about, hoping to hear something of zippers
From that Monstrous Beading Flesh or
catch some of the smell in our penny
jars and there was some sound the
best of us maintained - even when we sleep with the beautiful
maids we Are Bored (for why would a maid
happen here or have interests in more than a coffee cup
you ask and in the possibility of your asking
we learn that words help to make memories but not to put your eyes out)
And Now, enlivened with the promise of
Tomorrow Morning
When the glorious object of the risky Nerve-endings
will flash brazen from the room, fully-grown and dull-eyed,
steeped in his own brimming essence
(we hope, too, and exhausted)
And we’ll be able to settle again in the
lost tracings of the warmth of
our calculated lives with or without the radio
noise or just a drop of it
An hour or half-hour at a time
But this is a Romance so they find each other!
And stay, sealed as we watch,
a picture to ensure we never move on, the frame,
and we - filling in the details.
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