Post-Coital Consultation with Oneself

Something decorous might clear one’s metaphoric palate –
finely weighed, conveyed and balanced toward the right
exactitudes: a humble, reassuring sense of things, of course –
a mild investigation of the source of one’s emotional

propensities – etched and clear, though with a hint of density –
a low-key demonstration of one’s analytic gifts – the kind
that slightly lifts the heart and eye and mind: combines
a bit of humor with a gentle note of gravitas – the sort of thing

that English people do in 1930s movies set in drawing rooms:
you dare to hope a bit of glory looms inside those double
clotted-cream-daubed doors: an antidote to troubled
and besotted dreams that plague the civilized at night

and get them sweating anxiously for more – of what,
they can’t be sure. (Sorts of thoughts one thinks on rainy
days whose gray amorphous brinks dissolve one’s being
into something one just had to scrape up off the floor.)



.