April Michelle Wolverton - The Cooling

He used to ease, stuck-on-sweet,
a gentle cooling
within the breath of me.

O, how that feeble fly teased,

with each slurp-spoon of luster,
he insisted, (a fiend, a fiend!)

How I ready-wrapped in cloth.
How I kept in salt.

For each dry whistle of his, of his, of his,

bleeds the dying breath of house,
feigned by
a trapping of the mouth.

Now, idle in dis-location,
I bare this slow contortion at the wheel.

And the sound,

that defensive roar
of the cuckolded beast, (a fiend! , a fiend!)

How I flinch from the heat.
How I always bend.

Because a hole, is a hole, is a hole,

dispiriting the collapse of the hand.

April Michelle Wolverton

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cooling/