WINTER MORNINGS

Cold a welt, we are tired

are stately     are manic      and morose

all at once in the morning light,

below 40 below the sky below the bellowing

highway along the interstate.

Make my fingers happen!

Enough with the table settings.

Fuck you, made bed.

We are terrific         are bellicose    and standing

what nakedly what enchantedly

bed to bed to bed like heads—

mansion this to anyone

and you got much lumber

to contend with        to formulate

for the ambulance. Ack! Ack! Ack!

Deconstruct the making.

We are bed-lords        are lip-lords

are three hundred blow-jobs

in the cold, the cold a bruise—

are black-and-blue     are yellow-and-blue

are tender     are money-blue

asking the morning for just one more.