insomnia insists that i call clara--the sublingual melatonin
is not drug enough to sustain any pleasures--vasco da gama
would not have been proud--anyway, fluids are always
retained in a beard so dense--i turn over on the sofa--clara
talks about her downy bosom--but i cannot escape that same
old feeling--splayed beneath plastic--she whispers, "leave
it on your tongue. let it sit there like a cracker." i said,
i know, because i can taste it."
"its ok, baby, its ok."