To the Bone

lady windermere and lazy linen, a whiteness comes over the morning. bedroom as a polaroid, this bed is hard and four-postered. a spare leg (hers or mine) spills over- like the crescent of an orange hanging by its string. the sheets pucker under our form, folds in imitation like hot origami. while we lie naked in this fluency, soaked in cool refrigerator light, our limbs are stacked in a pile of leftovers– pepsi, poultry and grou n d peanut chutney. the light is almost clinical. i wince, then sigh into this whiteness . behind the glass window, a city festers, chipping mortar like bad bones in the winter. our mouths open like the highway, wet concrete and bodies careless with their tyres. we waste this quiet with words.