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I want to run away with you, but
if I do, you must promise that we’ll
do nothing constructive, just loll in bed
for at least half of each day and not
worry about the sights we’re not seeing
(what’s to see, anyway, when so much
remains to be forgotten, missed, or
misunderstood), the things not
getting done, the world spinning
on its rickety axis. In fact,
the less we do, the more we’ll achieve
in this ruthless paring down of
our lives together to flesh and bone,
desire and fatigue, proving once again
how hard hedonism is, conjoined
on our island of queen bed.
I thrill at the thought of it, throb
with recognition at the sight of us
in our wee lifeboat, bobbing on a green sea,
the bed not yet on the horizon.
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