It is the morning and the yellow sun falls through the window like a stone. In the kitchen
the dishes wait and bits swollen meat have stuck to sides of knives. All around us
Broken flesh is aching. tonight we will go deep into out powerful bodies again. Or we will do nothing
and survive just the same. Woman, wake up and hold me, I have nowhere else to take my anger. Wake up
and let your hands spread warmth along my back. Now that both the music and bruises have gone. 
And all that remains refuses to begin without falling, is caught and held in the light that spills off 
the floor and stains the bed like wine

MarC--