would you like to come over?

the ants are running under the coffee pot 
to avoid my hand, acting as god
stamping out death across the counter
             the coffee is hot and so is the day
i only like sweating                                     	       
                                          if i’m soaking
discretion annoys me—
               which is why you aren’t here
but let’s imagine you were in my bed              	           
on this hot morning—
             you’d push your head                                    
                                       away from your left arm, 
probably complain                                         
              through a smile
you’d walk over to the counter
and offer the ants a miracle:
you—the much talked-about, seldom seen,           	
                                        merciful god
making up for me—           	`

              who, if clouds were patience,      	

                                        would be a clear blue sky.

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