poem: wednesday

the coffee makes sputtering demon noises its face
pressed close to filter, I pull back too soon
the glass sloshes. faint thrum press-press in lower-
lands, even the parking-lot thin
florescenant light magnetically attached above
my desk will
give out. weak water taste, sleep mossing in
at the edges. do you know how bad
the torment gets, the leaf turning over-over-over
in heated gas: the thought perforated
then struck. the computer’s face is lines
of blue code, the data en retard,
the desk curling around my waste: do you know
I think only of
the affair and the wet air that came in
under the door, his large hands,
the extension of the domain of the fight,
how aftwards, we wept.