Sex in the Time of Fucking

This pulp, this metapoetry, this
scripture speaking for collective
that singular summer chopping vegetables
how we left them
scattered near the stove. Didn’t bother

to fully undress. When you’re in love
anywhere’s a bed. Windows
prove the wall’s limits
are artificial. Swallowed

a small voice when we got up, forgetful
of our hunger. No moral
implied by filling the belly

or speaking about what’s behind
our mesh screens. The neighbor’s

lit window. The dogs
howling for our meals’ compost

spread across the kitchen
island our breathing
as if to no one.