Platonic

Yesterday
I made love to my sorrow,
stole her
depth and marrow in the welts of duvet,
chased her soft edges into the tunnels of sleep,
fingers weaving fortunuous futures,  
swallowed her,
made her passenger
skipping isles of my vessels on a dark-beaten rope.  
No one to rescue,  
no one to come.  
Yesterday  
I made her swollen,  
red with engagement,
cut her down.  
Today I don't have the will for those earthquakes
so instead  
wash the sheets
and watch the world go by,  
a squirrel runs the telephone wire
with such finesse.