when you're in the mood
for love i follow you down
curved stairwells
move through
the darkness of inviting
red rooms
take my place on the couch
help myself to a bowl of cherries

and our hands do not lock.

all things, or, the shadow
of things, slant
towards you at the center.
even the mistletoe hangs guilty as
our eyes avert impending disaster,
the tabletops seem as if they
would splinter under the weight
of desolate white silences
and magazines, and books
sitting under piles of sunlight,
pages curling away because
we have read them and are bored,
or possibly, curling away because
they are bored of being read.

should i beg you to love me?
or should i flee to a country
called chastity
where i must paint my lids black
and walk barefoot,
and when possible,
run other men over like cars?