All day, I was so heavy,
drugged, fugged, dragged earthward
with the be-fogged and leaden drudgery
of your sweet poison. Is this passion?
This slow and slumberous slothfulness?
This avoir-dupois of desire?

I hang upside-down from my life,
growing a creeping moss on my back,
my eyes dreamy and drooping,
limbs clinging with minute barbs
to the silent, vegetable poise of the dark.

I have been intoxicated
with a slowness thick as chicle
from the tree's trunk;
opaque as the pregnant white sap that bleeds
slow-as-a-latex-eternity
from the manmade scars that mutilate
the disappointed flanks of the rubber tree.