I get up and eat a banana.
Stand bare in my kitchen.
Shave and hearken to Billie Holiday.
My god, I’m so obsessive about you.
You’re new. You’re tall. You make me really feel
like by no means placing garments on.
Who’s to say in the event you’ll nonetheless be round
when anybody’s studying this poem.
Or if the Earth will proceed
(it’s getting extremely popular!)
or if we’ll get it proper in language
precisely how we really feel about one another.
I don’t care about being remembered.
I care about an incredible glass of wine.
Strong males. Beautiful sentences. Italian leather-based.
Call me old school, actually.
But after I reduce myself shaving above the lip,
I lick up the blood. I don’t wince.