for D.J.

Insomnia, he says, like
maybe I should believe him.
If it isn't a vouch for attention,
there is some hope to be found
in the shy black eyes of
lambs.

He says he wants to fuck me
I smirk and tell him, "Dream On"
He says he doesn't dream because
Sleep is a tease even more than I am.

"Four hours last night," he reports
when I ask if the grass is growing.
"And the rest of the time I just
lie awake, thinking of kissing
the candy-crevice of your cunt."

He falls like Alice,
shutter-box over the table, his
steady breath fogging the looking-glass tabletop
while the bee-catcher drones and
drips pollen into the spines of
health books.

"Fuck me," he says.
And I'm seriously thinking about it:
whether or not his poor mauve-weary mind
could use a little screwing with.