think of russian dolls. behind the curtain down the hallway in the
lounge room on the chair is the man with this daydream in his head:
a bigger apartment, a bigger lounge room, a bigger television
to have faster internet to watch the acceleration of the world.
webcam shows him the people, and in his searching he will find
>you< cold footed and surreptitious, peering through the curtain,
down the hallway, to the lounge room. all will be revealed.
russian dolls, each emerging bigger than the last.
write me. write me in lecherous detail.
in sighing colours and squirming moans
and belly shivers and heat. consume me
as you create me. be consumed. write
me as I’m waking, as I’m falling, as only
you can see me in my night. write so I
can touch your skin. write so I can see
you. write me with eyes closed and
hands sliding slickly down your back.
write the heartbeat you caress. the
breath you inhabit. write me. write me.
make me real.
Today you walk
to the café on the hill top
where the waitress brings a long black
and a nod of recognition
to your table.
You unwrap your inheritance of yesterdays,
picking absently at threadbare cloth
as you turn them over and examine their shapes,
try yet again to fit them together.
Rain heavy glass
distorts the people walking by,
and the coffee is strong