This is called "In the Home."
Nothing in thick clothes is happening.
No grounds for divorce this time.
No one breaking down the last rung
in the ladder of lust, propped against the house
of bona fide fidelity no one can enter,
but must prove residence.
If a step on the stair is a fist in the heart,
if one treads carefully on the ego and the heart in the hand.
If the song in your heart is my heart and your mouth,
why that's bloody possible.
What's the metaphor, but a mask?
A conceit, but a godawful bore either
or there's more to be said for slumber after a good screw.
Turning in for the night, but more
than a handful of pleasure, with more than oneself to come to.
Well, it goes on.
I've got to make some leaps here,
and so I can excerpt some and give some indication
of what happens.