There is sand on the sheets
of the bed in this room.
No matter. The jealous cat
laps water from my glass.
So? She’s thirsty.
The old candle drools wax
on my silk but I won’t notice
until later. Beside it
rests the ball of his geek
T-shirt, the one with
a cartoon double helix.
It’s winding up or unraveling
depending on—you could say
for instance, that his
mewing cat has laced
the glass with kitty spit—
but I’m distracted now
by heaven stretching.
Is that modest strip above us
still posing as a window or
does it give us the night sky
in just a seductive slit?
At this moment of no past
scratching and no future
knocking in, his cramped studio
falls away like a cracked shell
and we take over. I lie along
his length, wanting only
to give and to get heaven to do
what it does. It gives back.

From Confrontation 118.