I’m going for a bowel movement at 8:30 a.m.
I’m stepping out, inside-out,
of the Universe for a couple of minutes.
You’re making tea.
Will you come pour it on me
if I haven’t returned in 15 minutes?
Yes, come and catch me on the inside,
the philosophical urinal where I dwell . . .
. . . Is this what it means to be lovers,
and compliant prisoners waiting to die?
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