I know the dead are watching me naked.
It restores me. We spoon and fuck
harder than all their sick-loving widows, widowers.
There’s the relief of nothing being
for pleasure. Nobody drives.
I beg them to congregate around my invisible thoughts
and howl at my original animus
but all they want is a body. It’s fine.
They rope me to this world with nonchalance.
That’s romance. This is the forest
where we are connected in multiple okay ways,
sibling, parent, patient, child. Each of us
is just the inner life of the other.
A furrier version of my voice says come
and means it could never be gross or tiresome
to watch me expel my own disgust.