A woman crying full of pleasure through the wall
Hands plastered on the plasterboard
I know that sound
She herself often leads me to the kitchen and then
Props me up, groaning, while I kiss her neck.
The whisperings of girls, smiles, sweet deceptions
Are not what they used to be,
Those thieves of wretched make-believe.
Our souls, being mainly air, cannot hold us together,
So breath and air together embrace the entire universe,
At least this one,
Each of us in our inner tube turning slowly
In a circle as we drift downstream on time.
How strangely my muddled senses swim!
As if some insomniac next door had left the TV on,
Filling the empty with its raucous emptiness,
A replay of something pre-recorded:
A woman crying through the wall.