you cough loudly
without covering your
mouth as if you
don’t already have my attention.
but I am also outside
listening to the sparrows.
we both rustle on top of
the afghan briefly
and separately.
I am heavy-eyed and
smothered grief.
you are wide awake
pretending to
sleep as I trace
the pattern of moles
on your back
into a mountain.
crumple underneath that
and reposition
so all of my useless body
is touching yours.
crumble underneath that.

remember when I made you all those CDs?

breathe
between your shoulder blades
so the question slides up your
neck.
I know every way to turn you
on
and back to me
but you just
shuffle,
uncross your ankles
and a dog yelps,
someone screams, a car backfires
and so does every other
fucking thing.
every day my block is
in uproar over something
and I’m just cowered
near the door.
you tell me not to sob
for show, and I’m just
slumping by the door
waiting for a year to pass.

my old record heart sits away
from you buried underneath
my dry nipple,
soon to be mounted and wet with
saliva and soon to be cold
and grasping soon after that  
remembered as
cradled by a hand that once
was open palm,
an unsteady hum,
unsated.
you look at the ceiling.
you look through something.
you look heedless,
like you did a year ago
slithering out of my place
leaving a trail of choler
and cry like 
slime and someone outside yells
at their child.
you say:

the only one that still works is How to Talk to God.

 “how to talk to God”