This morning sore all over, deadlines, a bladder blooming pain, the emails looming. I swallowed a man last night, his life warm inside my life, wet vowels parting the mouth, careless union. I try to do the work of change though I’ve never prayed. If a deity could bring relief, it would be an animal apart from man. I ground my pelvis because I know how good I am. I slept on a broken torso and woke whole and apart from man. The best poet who ever lived and died, I click on her expired website. I ache from prompt and ruin, the fragmented torso, clenched to human form, formed from stone. I slip with the scree, loosed from—what?, I formed and formed around a tear. At twenty-two, I spread for anyone who wanted it. I honor nothing of tradition, just a lousy temple in which I refuse. The singer tells us we’re the last two slowdancers. Lights alienate her. Then, the bar, a man, an elevator, a bed. I zip my dress up, wasted, changed.