4:47 seemed morning enough, I was
fingering my asshole, which is a thing
I do now sitting on the toilet peeing,
it divides the peeing up, which I’ve thought
must be a prostate thing, postponement in
the pleasure, a mild pleasure, a lengthening
postponement, secret middle age luxury,
faucet rinsing during the cover of flush,
which I can reach still sitting peeing maybe
more, if I ate the gummy also (how small
is my life) in secret the night before.
May I stay here (shall I rise) a moment
modulating: it isn’t a canal thing,
it isn’t deep. I’m in the leather of the mitt,
an ancient cereal, a millet spelt kamut
fig, terrain not terroir, the pet
requesting more, what’s the matter with more,
a funny negotiation when it’s you.
No, the pudendal nerve has a lot to do.
I take my phone and cast its face down, that way
lightless, and quietly my plastic glasses,
I select the sounds I make, aware of where
the house returns its own, I brew but I
won’t iterate the steps. The whole area
is innervated by the lace. It settles.
I wash the while what dishes there are.