not a sex poem:

i am shorter with no shoes on
my toes rubbing cotton socks
into the synthetic fibers
of a worn-down carpet;
purple into red.

the heat here is on the "fritz"
or a distant island in the pacific
simply taking holiday
in this, the unforgiving tale
of a sturdy winter.

i need to finish this book
so i can write this letter
but i leave in 15 minutes;
go home, go to bed, go to sleep.

between the layers of slumber
are tangled masses and dreams
of his spirit animal and mine
mingling in a domestic forest
at the hum of a filtered pond

and we, of all the creatures,
ill-suited to one another,
are happy here without the heat.

we have thick socks to keep our feet
warm through the last month of winter.