I am sleeping with a man who doesn't sleep.

He watches. His pager.

And me getting undressed.

I'm not thinking about it

except for this moment.

For once I feel good.

We make love

like he knows about me, even though

I'm not completely there.

But maybe now, I can stop.

Stop with the thinking. Since

this man has slipped in

and brought out

what was missing, there has not been

a second thought. For hours,

years, we make love in between sheets

smooth as sod,

closing us in like victims,

making it hard to think,

clawing at threads

like two wild boars

eating their own kind

to fill in the space

between wire hangers

that don't even touch

and rusty razors

fallen close to the drain.

He pats his mustache dry on his back.

I find a thigh to lean into.

His penis lay soft and bent

like a comma,

waiting to put an end

to the thoughts

I take to bed with me.

I think it is time for him to go.

I think my place is old

with webs on the fan,

and my husband

is so far away

in a state

I can't even imagine,

buried in a coffin

I think he would have hated.