buckled body, bend doubled
with hands wine red
grasping, reaching, gnawing
from feet away,
causing the contortion,
with inevitable gravity
on your side, your
dead weight refocused,
hell-bent on possession

of this unassuming, plain,
light linen fabric
of us

on which I, too, have a hand
standing still with worried sigh
for I simply want a little
to cover us

while obstinant hue and cry
emanates from your maw,
your vector, your spectacle,
clamoring that I’m
ripping it