Gone is the late,
languid dream, the lazy
misdirected energy, closely-shaved
armpits, gaped hungry and pink,
deep past the alarm.
The crepe-strewn sphinx, hollows
now filled and tapped, easy
with a new eye, punctual
as a cuckoo clock,
does not take much room
in bed, but sleeps rolled
in a ball, a pendulum steeped-quick
and pulled-out, like a teabag.
Would you like me to read it to you?