The mornings you get out of bed before me,
feigning sleep, I watch you dress
to gauge how you behave
when no one’s looking.
And as you waddle round the room
attacking drawers, I focus,
fascinated, on your fork,
your breasts, your buttocks
as if I’d never seen them.
We’ve linked our aims
and fused our flesh
and know we’re better paired.
Still… having to concede that you exist
outside of my conception
and create a universe that overlaps with mine
with perceptions that don’t pertain to me
and dark matter I can never sound
nor work my will on,
leaves me frantic to find out what I can.
But even as I curl here, concealing
my intent to see what you’ll reveal,
I’ve half a notion you’re aware
intuitively of being watched,
instinctively amused by my poor ruse
to find insights in your undulations
and artillery in the manner
you pull on your drawers.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Dan Stokes would be
pleased to hear them