Thursday, March 5, 2015


In the middle of the night 
the moon and stars milk and creaming 
the Meandering Meadows buildings, 
down one hall, in Room 77, there’s a pair in bed 
a man and a woman; she starts to turn over 
then he starts 
and as they turn over 
in a simultaneous sleepy rhythm 
they aren’t ( yet ) awake for, 
a sound issues out of their bodies: 
the universal sound heard incontinence 
across many seas

b - r - r - r - r - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - p ! 

There’s a silence in the room, in the hall,
all over the building; silence except 
for the dripping of moonlight and starlight,
but there’s also the sound of two people 
trying not to laugh 
in the clean serene sheen of sleeping and dreaming; 
that sound is a wheezing, a snorting, then 
an out-loud, late-night hooting. 

“What are we, the Tijuana Ass?” 

“Well, I do love the way you toot, my darling,” says the woman. 

Eventually, they'll fold into each other, spooning, 
lining up the wind instruments in one direction;
then they'll follow the starlight on their pillows 
back toward sleep. But first, tonight - they might 
have some more laughing to do. 

“I had told you that we could laugh at anything,” he said to her. 

He had, and they did; all night long. 
And for the rest of their lives. 

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