Where did you sleep last night?

[rowens]

Between the sheets there is a scent of a different love.

No reason to change the opening line
a of a 

Soft lip and molten tongue. You caress my ample waist

molten and ample?


without a grimace. Kiss with misplaced passion


grimace goes over . 

I mean it goes far below and far above



and mint breath, perhaps to fog a memory of a lover?



mint works,      fog is too strong with memory here


You fold linen and launder clothes with the zeal
of a bribing child. I wonder if this love will ever slither
out of its cellophane skin. You scurry in the kitchen
and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous.
Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter.


The words in these lines are like earthworms on the ground under people talking about things, paying no attention to earthworms


The lines between your relentless texts sidle
into confessions.  

That makes more literal sense than the poetic sense of this poem


Words gather like foam
over tepid coffee.


They do? 

Inside this mirage, love is nourished by illusion

I can see that


and buries the question for a different day.

Think about what that means: a question is buried for the sake of another day