The grape skins on a bowl
Residue of my desert for the night,
And a coffee mug that I brewed
Which I’m sipping still.
I’m alone in an apartment in Sydney
Solitude playing a lone hand
Against the barometric sensors of loneliness
Losing to the last sip of coffee going
Down the esophagus and looking
At the extra pillow in the studio bed
Wishing she was an insulated woman.
How needy of morphing were the contours
Of skin, to that reciprocal of touch,
Claustrophilia juxtaposing,
And I knowing, how immeasurable
The billowing of the body is
To that augmented sense of singularity;
Time slowing down, the mossies becoming
Louder, and touch screaming
Like a siren. My need to be needy
Summoning like a tree calling for a bird to perch
On a naked branch of autumn willow.

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