Carousal

It is as if the wind
has undulated the winter
wheat of your hunger
and after
her car wheels down the drive
you coil in the bedsheets
for minutes that draw
into hours
before you shakey-leg
it to the kitchen
to boil water for tea.

My god her smell is on
your bedsheets,
and a smile bubbles
up from your ego
and you cannot focus:
the difference between Doric
and Ionic, what is?
you jumblethink, will the moon
scream into the earth
the way your syntax does
watching the packet of tea
dance like your mood as it
crests the surface and
mambos among the steam
and did I tell you -
oh . . . that . . . fucking . . . smell?

Steam dissipates. Mind cools.
Jeans cut rough against your thighs
and the road outside is silent -
maybe the climax was a release
for everyone - but the ensuing
quietude says lie. You seek
to preserve a moment
saveable as autumn leaves,
washable as bed sheets
or old car keys,
one ruinable as love.