[private]her night thoughts
My baby wails. That I may rest
I offer him a rubber breast
And soon as waves by oil suppressed,
He quiets. An underhanded trick
Yet practical and politic-
He cries for bread. I give him brick,
But when night circles round to four
I open to him like a door
And yield him all he wants and more.
As old wives say, it may be true
That love too frequent can undo.
Sometimes give just the likes of you.
Your lover’s tide may rise in flood
When there’s no answer in your blood.
Then let that raging bull chew cud
And go to sleep. Let him return
When in coincidence you burn.
Fire lingers near a kindled urn
And lives to burn again and spreads
On real as on imagined beds
Held fast by things that stand in steads.[/private]
