can we consider the importance
our minds lavvied in milk sunlight and
the webs and
weeds lolled about our
the rats and things now in our pupils, now in
our dusty, heavy eyelids
caught down by the bedsheets,
the watery linen sheets,
the edges still stained with the heat of our passion.
If I lean on the pillow
and put the feathers through my hands,
through my mind
If I call it poetic introspection,
will it justify us?