I should be used to it by now, sleep that nails me to the door
in a heat even summer envies, all hair and sweat and sadness.
Throwing a deck of cards against the dingy wallpaper,
you can't help but caress something, a tuft of hair, a settled
settler, a body flung from a Volvo on a Friday night, a widow
of two. You want to sketch me, I oblige and ask
about your heart, she loves me she loves me not,
how it has failed you, can we drink espresso
in your chemo wig. your coldsweat logic.
I miss that. This lamp's heat puts me down.
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