I've got this thing about order.
The order of the house:  each
pillow artfully tossed, the stiff
shoulders of well-pressed suits,
CDs shuffled according to color.

The order of the body:  how I fret
over thickenings of winter,
an anarchy of hair, my stuck 
vision of lean hairless lovers 
fucking on some clean surface 'till dawn.

The order of my life:  how my 
words stack against me, the one
who would never betray him.

Et tu?  they ask, as I wake 
in the sweet disaster of your flat, 
the yin-curve of your belly 
in the damp yang of my back  

Hell yes.  Precious, this unholy
mess:  the dust-starred slats
of light across the bed, the storm-
slacked ocean of our bodies,
the blessed brine of entropy.