Zywa
I read you
At the night-lamp, I read you
in my agendas, I stroke the blanket
over your body and lie
awake between the sheets
on the hard question what
more should I have
not done but been
today? I listen
to you and the world
of footsteps, a door
the flush of the toilet
at the neighbours and the silence
of doing nothing next to the turmoil
in your bowels, drizzly
was the day, but
with siskins and sips
of ristretto, with your shoulder
leaned against mine
How often have we done that?
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