Oh visceral sun go bother others
that are yet younger than us instead,
As everything that matters now
is sealed inside this bed.
We are whole countries
caught in cotton,
hip to hip,
with spittle on the pillow.
I just wish that busy old fool,
the cruel winter sun, would piss off
and leave us to it.
We are two stumps of broken teeth
who (sleeping sweetly) both are crowned
the king and queen of our cushioned domain
because nobody else is around.
We are like ammonites coiled in bliss;
we wake with bleary lust.
And late from punched up alarm clocks
rush into the city’s dreary wilderness.
I swear at you sun, through the curtains
and then give him one last kiss.
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