In the Center of That Red Chaos

I dream we are watching television, a funny show about two people who are in love but won't act on it.  You say nobody wants to see a happy couple.  You kiss my nipple.  I moan.  You laugh at the television.  I say my heart is breaking.  You whisper something in my ear.  There is a slight pain in my head that feels like a reversible trench coat.  I ask you to read a poem to me, something sad, something with a tinted nuance.  You say I shouldn't use words like tinted nuance, that no one will understand what I am trying to say.

I say the whole world will understand what I say if I repeat myself enough.  You say the world isn't listening, you say their hearing is superficial and flighty.  You kiss my nipple.  I moan.  Do you know that I am half edible?  There is a slight pain in my head that feels like blue summer daylight.  I say read me a poem about sex, something written when sensuality was still in everyone's blood.  You say you don't understand but you know a poem by Kenneth Koch.  You don't know the name but you have a part of it memorized.

I tell you I have no boyfriend.  I tell you I went to the beach yesterday.  I was wearing a green sweater.  I say there were origami birds in the sky.  You say you won't ask questions about the other boys.  I say there are no other boys.  You say you won't ask questions.  There is a slight pain in my head with a silvery tint.  I tell you to slap my face.  You laugh and pour yourself some juice.  Slap me, I say.  Bite my nipple.  Don't you know I'm half edible?  You laugh and drink your juice.  I suggest we start a romance, my hand in your back pocket, your hand in my shirt.  You say, didn't we do that already?  I say no, we were only pretending.

Across the street there is a farm.  I say is that cow wearing a pink organdy frock?  You laugh.  We are animals, I say.  Let's have sex in the tall grass and pretend it's the edge of the world.  You suggest a shoebox.  I bite your nipple.  You slap my face.  We are swimming from leaf to leaf.  We are drawing jerky, zigzagging lines across a blue sky.  Nothing I say is really what I want to say.  There is a pain in my head that feels like Kenneth Koch.  You kiss my neck.  I think about sending a handful of sand in the mail, shells and broken bits of coral.  I imagine us on a green blanket, your warm hands on my back, your mouth on my neck.  I imagine a sweet wind, and a sky of white origami birds.  
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