Plain Clothes

the mouse that roared's picture

I long for intensity
the way I ache
for sex.

One in my heart, squeezed in a juicer and
left to sit,

One in my gut, gobs of clay longing wrapped
to my ribs and
opening my lips
chapped with kissing.

And my refusal to love ordinary isn't snobbery,
it's simmering stronger than tea, than tomato soup,
heavier than the buzz of alcohol.

It crawls out of my juice-squeezed heart and sand-layered gut,
emotions dripping like tides.

And I am always dressed
in clothes too plain
to be crazy.