Title*

I found the zenith (it is no bed nor building).

You talk in your sleep
of warmth, of banana muffins, sweaters,
(of haiku days being high with
you)
in a voice like the pleasure of
cold hands wrapped around a mug.
I wish you'd wrap around me
and never stop reading
Bukowski.

I dream speak maple bacon,
embarrassed words,
how I despise the proper way you never curled around me
or clumsy unthought kisses
meant to be done right.

[Return my sweater
in any way other than
the mail.]