In the Mouth of a Zero

Every night the ceiling fan

weaves me a whirlpool

to drop my eyes into it,

to land weightless

in a stale pool of desire.

Every night

in the mouth of a zero,

I find your dream,

bubbling like

it has just escaped from a bottle,

like it has come with a tide

to be gone,

to be gone.

I peel the white waves

off the shore

and wear them like morning

across my neck.

The ceiling fan never tires

of weaving me this endless drape

of nudity.