laying sprawled in sun-shapes
off the window on my dirty sheets,
a reconcilable form of relaxation,
I name myself "Lesser Than"
still imagining your horizons,
your hips, and the cliffs in your eyes.
I'm sure your face, a desert
where lotion and the hands
of former lovers have smoothed the rocks
swallowing the sands of youth there,
smiles someplace as warm as this
bed with me near sleep across it.