cobalt

As she rolls backwards,
the telephone cord
wiggles between her
legs. Her tone is smooth:
I swear we should tie

the knot, I swear it.
My eyeballs are penned.
I follow the curve
of her back onto
a worn mound of clothes.
A bra dots it, a

snow capped peak. A vague
image, a faceless
phony brushed my
eyes. Her --- yet NOT her.
Im hung up in her
lacy brassiere. Cords

and wires hook me
up. I will not peel
this peak. I will not
right this voice. I will
not draw with these lines.