this slippered tongue lies
beneath thin cotton evidence
and the callous of a stare
that somewhere dream of me
where you love with all your hate
it keeps your fingers honest
confronted with the mouth
of these quickly melting jeans
and all the zippered things
that should have been whispered
madly pebble in the braille
of your slick-lipped circles
dying little damp deaths
of clothes-puddled conscience
burning in this heaven
for all of haloed hell