There is This! There is This!

My pillow, I love when you are beneath my face
I carry you into the bathroom with me, hug you
While I squat. My pillow! Soft realization of my dreams!

Not the dreams that make a man a poet, but the dreams
That make a man confused! I stumble at every avenue.
My back’s the same as my front. A clueless boy with pink fruit
For elbows asked me in the canteen if I knew him.

I swear. His eyes were like raspberries, just like
His elbows and he was so thin I swear he was a phantom.
Have you not died, I asked him. He was a homosexual,
I found out soon enough. He invited me up into the vent.

We crawled inside the vent: dust. My body is a fruit;
You can crush it between your thumb and forefinger, like
A fruit, a wild berry, and I will stain your skin long enough
For you to taste me and then I will disappear, he said.

And he disappeared. We were like dust in the vent.
I carried my pillow with me back to bed. I love you, my pillow.
You are real and your shape changes with the contours of my face.