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post-op, i’ve been sleeping in another room—
her incisions don’t like to be jostled
by lumbering limbs—on the floor like an apostle
sans the cool robe (mine is green, bath) in his tomb.
it’s all static and sweat, sans grace, and the moon
insists i get up, get up, dust fossils
of dreams for clues. here, even the docile
guitar is strummed by new shadows. to whom
it may concern, i pray, i’d rather this mattress
were afloat in the sea, dreamy as an actress
on drugs, and the wind chill warning’s fat kiss
wasn’t so sloppy. my wife should be unstressed
as the surf’s syllables. she should wear a sundress.
and our breath should be rum-drunk, together, undressed.