come into my bed
and let me walk
my feet up your shins
slowly, like a glacier, until you squirm,
push me off, say, “cut it out, you little shit”
will you answer to “space heater” for me
the hair on our heads will
knife out in awkward angles
like clock hands
we’ll try not to
notice how lamplight
blurs into jetstreams
if you move your head too quickly,
or how the roaring of a heater
sounds like turbines in
the midnight hours
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