Mark Scott

"the best damned poet in the business"

Together in a Tent for the Night

What forms happiness takes, if formal—
I close my eyes to capture its normal
fluid state, the better to hear it espoused.
But no one knows where pleasure is housed,

not really. I wish it didn’t move around so much,
were polymorphous and stable. But we are such
agile creatures that sleep alone’s an adventure
and an area of research. I’m not against a cure.

I talk too much. For example, my content
may change from time to time; may even invent
a memory of a dinner you cooked in New York,
or of a night in Boulder when we spooned or forked,

kissed or didn’t kiss: who can convince whom which?
Zipped in our bags, we can be cold, or snuggle, or bitch.

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