Yesterday's Fodder

What do you say
when you are outside yourself,
a three-d visionary, looking at your own
breasts in a nameless man's hand? Surely,

the skin as ever clear, the breasts more than ever
rotund
(as the handful of helium balloons held by the businessman
yesterday at four).

You sit crosswise on his lap, naked,
unabashed,
yet your hair is redder than ever
(as red as the fire engine that came up on your left
yesterday at ten).

He says he wants you,
wants you to do marvellous things
to him, to yourself, together, apart
and outside yourself, yet in your head
you know you can fall to your knees
or keep sitting
(as the man standing in front of your on the train
is tall and handsome and his hips are in front of your mouth
if you should only open your lips
and should the train bump
yesterday at five-thirty).

And so you sit
as he raises your legs
toward your head
as you see yourself
outside yourself
framed in a doorway
(as impossibly twisted as getting out of the doorway was
while carrying too many boxes
yesterday at noon).

And you think to yourself
inside yourself this morning,
if only I can have yesterday's
fodder for this morning's dream again.