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Harvest gold

We painted the doors shut and fucked with the light
that’s linked to so many switches and never
lights the room.

Then we unplugged the house and now the waste
from our late night meals and clothes from our bedtime all work equally well for effigy or efferent,
shroud or sanctuary

Then the clones of small crops grew from the cellar in the dark, stunted and wrinkled yet energetic,
but the dark itself is now crusty and unassertive,
humic, stale.

As such there is no light to warm the indigence in our embrace
but at least the heat expelled from us no longer tastes like shag,
or Christmas electrical fires.

We painted the door shut and each of us fucked with the other,
you who is linked to so much indecision, and me who never lights up a room