Zeke Greenwald

Toilet

Zeke Greenwald

The sun had lost its light tight-ropes in the amber of the acne soap, I wash my face;

and slowly soapy residue attracts, with cracking dry skin clues, my fingers.

Our fluids dry quickly in that way; they evaporate across the grain of our knuckles

and lips, whose movements crack their varnish; thus sex is an inconstant artist whose friable

medium has memory enough to forget for you its obscure stuff; so I scarcely

remember to even wash it from our green and white striped sheets some months, or me, some days;

or I forget complete occasions drying as I withdraw, that cravings newly spawn.

What she asked me

Zeke Greenwald

“And was it loud on your commute? Your thoughts sobbing, forcefully nude, stripped before sunbathing made them want to?

“Or, regretting having ferberized your muse who shrieks for solace every night: wakefully thoughtless, brake shrieks might contend with her for your despite?

“Still early morning’s maquillage beneath your eyes glossed on to gauze, distant and departing railroad lines lend lovely smoke to your sleepless eyes.”