(17) Getting Off
Getting Off
She is standing apart
In the doorway watching me lie with her-
Self to mainline the sensations of the other, identifying
With the betrayed and yet receiving
The treatment: the self hurts and the body thrills
It's not a conversation
And, as there is no dysfunction I cannot accept, I accept
The both of you
In all things I ask am I the one
Doing this?
Didn't we stop and listen
To the street musician just two hours ago?
Or is what we take as substance really as fleeting as thrown light
So that I stand always at the apex of the arrow I have diagrammed
Recursive in the space between the bed and the door, the space
And the spirit. Can I fuck that? It's not
A conversation. My eyes are the windows to my retinas
Pull down a lid with hands bigger than my face
I think, keep going, doc, climb right in.