Shagging Albert Einstein
I’ve been reading a biography
of Einstein slipping
into bed each night with Albert
falling into his never-ending
bending arms of light
spooning with my sexy husband
but lusting for the meaty
mind of a disheveled dead man.
I long to stroke his face, his crazy
hair, to press my lips against
his throat, to open Albert’s mouth
with mine, to linger like a scent
on Albert’s clothes—to know.
The night’s dark energy draws
close as Albert travels to me slowly
at light speed—his apartness floats
beside me in space-time a moving
body it accelerates then falls
into the curve of mine.