late night poetry

Your single bed can’t hold us both
So I sit cross-legged on the floor
With nothing to be said but
Comments on our matching sets of
Hair in a pile and motionless heat of two long days and nights reading
Nothing but Virginia Woolf and eating nothing but ice blocks
(They froze small holes in our exterior)

We fiddle with smalltalk
Respectively, one and two
Fall between us we ignore what has only been said in dull-humming light
What have three, four, five ever done for us we ask in earnest not knowing that
Within the tangled fingers shiver cold and touch palms
There is a wolf
And hungry silence chewing us to pieces
Whilst her stillness nestles.

So this is it, I say and stand, but do not leave.
Yes.
This is it.
(Six, seven, eight, nine)